Under This Cowboy's Hat [Anthology]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Under This Cowboy’s Hat TOP SHELF An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Hung Up by Cat Kane copyright ! 2006, Masked Rider by Parhelion copyright ! 2005, Ricochet by BA Tortuga copyright ! 2006. Edited by Rob Knight, first edition published November 2006 Cover illustration by SA Clements Published with permission ISBN: 1-934166-32-4, 978-1-934166-31-1 www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. First Torquere Press Printing: November 2006 Printed in the USA

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Table of Contents Foreword - 4 Masked Riders by Parhelion - 5 Hung Up by Cat Kane - 67 Ricochet by BA Tortuga - 139 Contributors - 196

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Foreword By Rob Knight What's under a cowboy's hat? Whatever it is, we love it. We love the rugged image of the cowboy. We love how he says, "Yes, ma'am," and "No, sir." There's not much we don't like about the cowboy. But there's a lot we don't know. The three stories in Under This Cowboy's Hat are slice of life stories. Whether they're Old West boys on the trail to unmask a ghost rider or rodeo cowboys on the road, or even simple ranch hands, working and loving, these tales give us a peek under the hat. Strong, emotion-filled, and fill of the romance of the West, Under This Cowboy's Hat will capture your imagination just like it did mine. Rob Knight, November, 2006

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Masked Riders By Parhelion I — How a Helping Hand May Be Worse Than a Hindering One

Jesse thought of himself as a cautious man. Nonetheless, his current companion was tugging away Jesse’s normal reserve. As the strong fingers stroked and squeezed his cock with uncommon deftness, Jesse was possessed by a singular notion. He wanted to cease working the fellow’s own cock in favor of embracing him and savoring their mutual intercourse. Such an indulgence would not only be rude, but fatal to the usual pretense in these situations. Supposedly, they were trading sexual favors only to avoid the wretched diseases plaguing the female habitués of San Francisco’s cribs and parlor houses in this year of 1869. Even so, Jesse was sorely tempted. The intimate company of another stock-tender was a rare delight. This rarity was why desire had overcome Jesse’s aloofness when his gaze met his neighbor’s as they took adjacent seats at the Bella Union Melodeon. Something about the way the fellow had smiled first made Jesse’s mouth go dry and then fired him with impetuosity. The subsequent conversation had ended here, with Jesse sitting on this cheap bed in a Barbary Coast boardinghouse while his cock was worked with strength and warmth. By God, Jesse already wanted to spend. He needed some distraction. Examining his companion might help; the man was too tow-haired, his skin too pale beneath his cuffs and collar to be one of the old rancho Mexicans, even if all else about him argued that he must have worked as a hand for many years. As they had strolled toward this boarding house, Jesse had savored the wide-legged walk and the weather-worn appearance of someone who had spent decades herding stock from atop a saddle. The fellow also wore the familiar high-heeled boots, if not the raking Mexican spurs, of the true vaquero. Even his palm and fingers had a vaquero’s calluses as they moved fitfully now, likely distracted by his own pleasure, up and down Jesse’s cock. For his part, Jesse had roped back his urges. He was far enough below his peak to once again concentrate on what he was doing. Stroking hard and fast, he felt the subtle movements and the trace of moisture that told him his companion was about ready to finish. As he looked into the pale blue eyes so close to his own, he saw them widen. “This what you need?” Jesse asked.

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“That’s right.” The fellow’s voice had a low huskiness that made Jesse smile while measuring out the desired rhythm of skin on skin. His companion returned the smile before losing any pretense of civilized expression. Usually, in such bold company, Jesse would have watched the cock in his hand, wanting to see it spend. This time Jesse studied his companion’s face. The look on it turned Jesse’s mind back to his own pleasure, enough so that the first bit of handiwork that the fellow did after his breathing eased pushed Jesse off his own peak. When they were done, the customs of such encounters again governed their behavior. Since Jesse had paid for the room, he would be the last to leave. The danger was small that someone would notice that two men had shared the space meant to be used by a patron and a saloon girl, but that small danger still belonged to the host. Jesse reclined on the straw-stuffed mattress and watched his companion clean up at the chipped basin on the washstand. Muscular and rangy, almost as tall as Jesse, he was altogether to Jesse’s taste even if he did look to be nearing his fortieth year. Such an estimate made him about a decade older than Jesse, but Jesse didn’t mind. He’d never been one for youngsters even after covertly perusing the arguments for boys in pagan literature while his professors thought they were tasking him with Cicero and Aristotle. As well, Jesse like the honed look that years of exertion earned a man, especially when that toughness combined with conversation that hinted at a lively intelligence. He wished that he could ask this fellow for his name, or invite him out for a drink at someplace passable like the Cobweb Palace, but these sorts of meetings did not yield acquaintances. Instead Jesse’s recent accomplice in gross illegality picked up his broadbrimmed hat and turned toward the bed where Jesse still lounged. Maybe Jesse only imagined the slight pause before the fellow said, “Thank you, sir. Good afternoon,” and let himself out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Jesse hoped that he had not invented the hesitation. He preferred to believe that he had made a favorable impression, perhaps one strong enough that he would be remembered. Without such forced optimism, these brief encounters would be unbearable even if Jesse had been long enough without virile intimacy to urgently need such easing. Getting up, he went over to the washstand. He was sure that he was frowning as he poured what was left of the water from the white-painted tin pitcher into the basin. Need or no, even if business kept him in San Francisco after tomorrow, he would not be doing this again. Little about being a man for men was the way that he wanted it to be. The corridor was empty when Jesse eased the door open, and he departed the premises with some briskness. Once outside, he worked through crowds thickening as night fell and San Francisco’s laborers joined the usual miners and sailors in their wanderings from dives to dancehalls and back again. As far as Jesse could tell, no one was following him,

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good reason for his having worn his working clothes on this trip. When he dressed as a ranch-hand even pick-pockets ignored him; only the doormen at the cheapest melodeons and the crib girls leaning out from upper-floor windows greeted him with raucous propositions. They were no hindrance to his strolling toward the respectability of Montgomery Street, where he turned south. Neither the doorman nor the desk clerk at the Lick House Hotel evinced any surprise at Jesse’s workaday garb. He was far from their first patron to visit the Barbary Coast in search of distraction, and it was the duty of a fine establishment’s employees to remember a resident’s face when they saw it. At least, it was their task to remember him until the police or the press came calling. Money, no matter its source, could protect a man from a thousand perversities. Jesse snorted at his own cynicism as he unlocked the door to his room. Doffing his riding hat, Jesse tossed it in the general direction of the hat rack and then took himself from the rented parlor into the bedroom. He had time to change into evening dress before supper was announced in the enormous Corinthian-columned restaurant downstairs, and he had better do so. Laborers were not welcomed in the Lick House restaurant. Instead, it was the haunt of so-called gentlemen. To Jesse’s way of thinking, choosing between the dives of the Barbary Coast and the fine establishments of Montgomery Street was like choosing between rotgut and rye whiskey. Given how much he loathed both tipples, he would be glad when he could return to the ranch. Ah, well. Perhaps the famous antelope steak would be on the menu this evening. *** That next morning Jesse straightened the pointed loops of his bow tie as he examined his reflection in the mirror. Then he frowned. He slipped his hands back into the straps of his sterling hairbrushes for another pass of the boar’s bristles through his dark, pomaded hair. A last glance assured him that his cowlick was now firmly subdued, so he picked up his top hat, gloves, and walking stick. When Jesse left Lick House five minutes later, he was wearing a passably tailored frock coat, suitable garb for Colonel Godfrey Jesse Putnam when calling upon the Giffords of Rincon Hill. His formal dress felt odd these days. He was glad that it was not also uncomfortable: although rarely worn, his old morning suit fit well and was close to this year’s fashion. Only his shoes were annoying. Four years of riding in the Union Cavalry followed by another three years of riding on California ranches had given boots a comfort no longer offered by the fine shoes he had worn as a youth in Boston. After nodding to the doorman, Jesse turned his face upward. Outside the Lick’s doors, the sun shone with pleasant warmth from a clear blue sky, and the breeze was off San Francisco Bay. Shoes or no shoes, he abjured the horsecar lines and risked sore feet by

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walking up Rincon Hill. His small gamble was rewarded: the day continued clement for March and the breeze fended off any fog. Jesse was still in good state when he rapped the knocker at the Gifford’s residence. The parlormaid smiled as she took his hat and gloves, and no frown marred his aunt’s countenance as she rose from her settee to receive his kiss upon her cheek. Jesse had to bend low: he was tall and Aunt Ada was quite short. She was clad in a yellow silk morning dress that Jesse would wager was only a year or so off the latest Parisian fashions. She smelled faintly of lavender, and her wrinkles were rearranged by a soft smile as she acknowledged his greetings. The gaze of her china-blue eyes was sharp enough to cut glass. After she settled the folds of her skirts around her, Ada said, “How kind of you to respond so promptly to my telegraph.” “It was my pleasure.” That was a taradiddle. It was his duty. This last year, after a siege of three year’s duration, he had finally yielded to the alternating pleas and commands of his parents and agreed to manage one of Uncle Hiram’s ranches. And Jesse was no fool: Hiram may have doubled his fortune by selling supplies to miners on the Mother Lode, and was now redoubling it by allying with the builders of the Central Pacific railroad, but Ada was the one who had always done Hiram’s arithmetic for him. If she asked for anything, Jesse hastened to obey. “Since you did not specify why I was being summoned, I failed to bring along the ranch’s books. I hope that will not create any difficulties.” Ada fluttered her fingertips at him. “No, no. Not only does our business lie elsewhere, but Hiram’s auditors are already occupied. We will review your annual accounts in November along with those of our other managers.” He bowed his head. “How, then, may I be of assistance?” “We need you to look into an unfortunate matter for us.” Unfortunate? In his aunt’s vocabulary, such a word could cover anything from a clerk embezzling a single ounce of silver bullion to several districts of San Francisco burning down again. The former was more likely, though; Jesse’s mercantile relatives would spend a hundred gold dollars to stave off a single greenback’s being stolen. Such illogic was bred into their bones. “Hiram and I are worried about one of the managers, a Mr. Thomas Lane of the Los Robles Ranch, our property south-east of Los Angeles.” Hearing her tone, Jesse allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Has he been stealing from you? Surely that would be a matter for the local sheriff. Or possibly the Pinkertons?”

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“Tsk. It would be if our concerns were about anything as definite as embezzlement. Our auditors have reviewed his books, and Mr. Lane’s seem to be as clean as Tuesday morning linens. This is of a piece with the probity that all accounts ascribe to him. No, rather than blatant fraud, there have been problems at the Los Robles that we cannot quite identify. Certainly we’ve grown concerned since reading reports about the ghost rider haunting the ranch.” “The ghost rider.” Jesse blinked. “By Jove, that is unusual.” “Yes, dear. However, I am afraid that matters at the Los Robles have been unusual for quite some time now.” Ada permitted the smallest of frowns to mar the serenity of her countenance. “Given the shrinking market for beef cattle, we have been shifting those lands over to sheep grazing and dry farming. Although we are now making a tiny profit, it is still not what it should be. The Los Robles’s operations seem to be plagued by persistent poor luck.” “Any sort of ranching is chancy, but you realize that.” Jesse knew that his Aunt and Uncle viewed ranching merely as a way to bank land until it could be more profitably disposed of elsewhere; such views made them patient about the vagaries of running stock and growing crops. “I assume that this poor luck is also peculiar.” “Peculiar. What a neat choice of a word.” Ada smiled approval. “After the auditors were done, Hiram and I both reviewed the books that we were shipped. We have read the reports, and we have dispatched visitors. All our efforts have been fruitless. Everything seems unremarkable. Nonetheless, neither of us liked the feel of the situation even before these ghostly visitations.” She pursed her lips. “I am disturbed.” Jesse would rather argue with a rattlesnake than with Ada’s intuition. “You want me to visit Los Robles, then?” “Yes, dear. Not as our manager, but as a ranch-hand.” “Ah.” Jesse considered. “So that is why you telegraphed for me to bring along working clothes and my old saddle.” “As you say. Hiram believes, and I concur, that our previous mistake was in sending men who were either conspicuous or lacked authority when distinction was, at last, needed. You are capable of passing among the local hands unremarked upon, you are our nephew, you have a good memory, and you pay attention.” When he had first come west, half-maddened by memories of the war and mourning the death of his wife, Jesse had worked as a stock-tender both to learn his new trade and to restore his shattered nerves. He still rode out much more than was expected of a manager. As a result, he was as good a ranch-hand as most of the eastern laborers who had joined the old vaqueros at herding cattle in California.

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“A herd of beef cattle has recently arrived at the Los Robles by way of the Old Spanish Trail. They are supposedly being isolated to be sure they don’t carry disease before we move them north to the Lone Tree Ranch, where they will be cross-bred with our local herd for the Comstock Lode market. Since these cows are of an eastern strain unfamiliar enough to justify an outsider’s looking them over before they are moved on, they provide us with an opportunity.” With raised brows, Ada added, “However, I refuse to ship my nephew off to face this socalled phantom alone. Along with assembling the information you will need, I have found a companion for you.” His aunt picked up the silver bell on the table by her elbow and shook it. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Wardley Bridger?” “We have corresponded, yes, but we have not met.” Bridger was yet another of his uncle and aunt’s employees. He was the foreman whose ranch-hands trained the horses that the Giffords bred down by Santa Barbara on the twelve thousand or so acres of the Playa Negra. Jesse had purchased two excellent studs from him. “Kathleen,” Ada said to the parlormaid who was bobbing a curtsey, “Would you please fetch Mr. Bridger from Mr. Gifford’s office? Ask him to bring along the ledger that he is studying as well.” When the maid retreated, Ada said, “Mr. Bridger is a very competent man and quite capable of assuming the guise of a wandering laborer. More important for your task, he has been in this state since ’forty-seven and so is familiar with the local customs and superstitions.” Jesse wondered how much an acquaintance with Mexican and Indian tall tales would help in uncovering fraud. However, it would be wise to have company, and Bridger was a canny fellow if his letters truly evinced his personality. At least the man would be able to convincingly portray a traveling vaquero; Ada would have written him, too, about bringing along both kit and saddle on the coastal steamer to San Francisco— “Mr. Bridger, mum.” The dreadful possibility seemed to gallop into Jesse’s brain right along with the parlormaid’s words. It was with no real surprise that he looked up to see his carnal companion of the previous night standing in the morning room doorway with a thick, leather ledger tucked under his arm and a bemused expression upon his weathered features. Only the harsh training of bloody years kept Jesse’s dismay off of his own face.

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II — Two Days Behind the Mast

Jesse shut the ledger hard enough to stir the smoky air. Above them, the nine years of accumulated spider webs that gave the Cobweb Palace its name, swayed gently. The proprietor felt that spiders were lucky. The patron confronted by a spider might or might not agree. “I assume that our leaving the steamer before San Pedro would have something to do with obtaining mounts.” “Well, there are horses a-plenty at the Playa Negra, but given what Mrs. Gifford said to me about due speed, I can’t see her being happy with our taking the time to ride all the way down from north of Santa Barbara to Los Robles.” Bridger shook his head while smiling, a rather mild reaction to Ada. “Not to mention, Playa horses are mostly broken to leverage bits these days so that an Easterner can ride one without destroying his mount’s mouth.” He didn’t have to tell Jesse that a true California cattle-herder would no more use a bar bit in preference to a spade bit than he would throw a lasso rather than a riata or call himself a cowboy rather than a vaquero. Such alternatives were for folks from back east, such as Texans. Bridger continued, “I know a man outside of San Buenaventura – the farmers are calling it Ventura these days – who always has a few mustang colts training to spade. He was one of the old ranchero vaqueros, and he has hands as light as a pair of hummingbirds. If we’re riding into a mystery, I’d rather do it atop a good horse, and he’ll probably loan us a pair of fine ones.” He had pronounced “vaqueros” as a Mexican would, rather than saying “backeroos,” as most eastern stock-tenders did. Jesse was pleased: white men without any Spanish were more likely than most to treat the colored natives like dogs. Having seen the results of such foolishness during the late Rebellion, Jesse avoided it. “First-rate thinking,” he said. “The ride down El Camino Real from Ventura to Los Robles should be enough to confuse our back trail.” “The trip will take a few days, depending on how the weather holds. We’ll need to keep watch for bandits.” Picking up his steam beer, Bridger took a long draught. Then, setting down the stein, he asked, “Are you otherwise satisfied with our arrangements, Mr. Putnam?” By his tone, Bridger was not talking about the stash of money that they would carry, nor the letters of introduction for emergencies, nor even the quality of their horses. How Bridger could bear referring to that Barbary Coast boardinghouse bedroom, though— For the first time since they had left Rincon Hill, Jesse forced himself to look Bridger in the eyes. After a silence that was probably shorter than it felt, Bridger smiled in the gentle way that he had. Heartened, Jesse said, “If I have been being at all unmannerly, I apologize. Sometimes, Mr. Bridger, it is hard to speak with a man more honest and courageous than one’s self.”

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“More honest? More courageous?” The smile widened. “Perhaps I only have less to lose.” “Perhaps. I take it that you do not mind being forced back into my company during this odd quest?” “No, sir, I do not.” “Well, then. Since we will be leaving early tomorrow morning on the coastal steamer, would you, strictly for the sake of convenience, care to join me at the Lick House tonight?” Now it was Jesse’s turn to stretch his lips. By all accounts, his usual smile was more sardonic than gentle. “There is a second bedroom in my suite. I can also ask for some food to be brought up if you do not wish to assay the dining room.” “If you’re wondering about my evening dress, I don’t have any. If you’re wondering about the company downstairs, you are correct: I would prefer to dine upstairs.” Bridger’s face was solemn now, but his eyes were amused. “I take it that you don’t desire to spend your last evening in San Francisco wandering the Coast?” Jesse snorted, and then added, “I believe the complications arising from my last visit will suffice me for now.” “There is a great deal to be said for a quiet evening with a good book,” Bridger agreed, his expression still grave. Jesse ignored the hopeful warmth below his belly. “The book in question would be my collection of Shakespeare’s plays, Mr. Bridger. Something about the events of the past few days has left me in the humor for perusing one of the comedies.” “The Comedy of Errors might be appropriate.” Bridger tilted his head. “And thinking about all those disguises and mistaken identities reminds me that you may wish to shave off your mustache tonight so that your skin will have time to darken before we arrive in Los Angeles.” Jesse winced: shaving now would mean that he would have to continue shaving both aboard the coastal steamer and on the trail. Likely in response to the wince, Bridger added, “I will be sacrificing my sideburns.” “I would rather hazard the ear that you could lose than the nose that I will risk, Mr. Bridger, since a man is gifted with two of the former and only one of the latter.” “I wouldn’t worry, sir. I have confidence in the steady hand of youth. In any case, by the time we arrive in Los Angeles, I will have begun a mustache to replace the one that you will be losing.” “May heaven forfend that the balance of masculine hair in this great nation should be disturbed.”

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“I admit that there is enough bitter sectional feeling without our causing any more fuss.” With Bridger’s last statement, Jesse could not argue. “Then let’s return to Lick House and a well-stropped razor. I believe I saw one of this house’s mascots fall into my grog when I closed that ledger, and I’m disinclined to sample spider punch.” “A sermon in a glass,” Bridger said, getting to his feet, “about the perils of hard liquor.” “I should have asked for a beer,” Jesse agreed. *** The next day dawned cool and clear. For once the steamer Oriflamme managed to depart its wharf on time, rather than a day early or late. Some of the hundreds of sea lions on the rocks inside the Golden Gate barked as they fared by, seemingly not yet bored with commenting on all the maritime traffic passing back and forth by their abode. Something about the way one of the huge bulls hitched his way across both the rocks and the smaller males reminded Jesse of his Uncle Hiram. He laughed, and went forward to rejoin Bridger. That worthy man – it was so easy to forget that the man shared Jesse’s noxious tastes – was slouched comfortably against a starboard rail, out of the way of the sailors and upwind of the smoke from the stacks. He looked up and touched his hat brim as Jesse approached. “Good morning, Mr. Putnam.” “Good morning, Mr. Bridger. I’d imagine that you are more familiar with the southern coastal route than I am.” Jesse had been managing lands situated across the Golden Gate, out past San Rafael. “We should be in San Luis Obispo on the central coast tomorrow morning, and we’ll lay over there while the cargo is unloaded by rowboat.” “No wharf yet?” “No wharf yet.” “Well, maybe the locals feel compelled to discuss the matter a while longer.” Bridger smiled at Jesse’s jape, and Jesse returned the smile. In California, whenever men of affairs gathered together, they ended up talking about building wharfs, railways, or both. Sooner or later, Jesse had learned from family experience, a few men would break away from the herd and actually build, and then everyone else would be less pleased with the results than they would have predicted. Bridger continued, “The rest of the trip will take a day or two, depending both on the weather and the skill of the sailors and locals when playing longshoremen. If we hew to the published schedule, we should be able to catch a boat in toward the Santa

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Buenaventura shore about mid-day Monday. The ship will be in San Pedro a few hours after that.” “While we will be in Los Angeles days later.” The state’s fascination with building wharfs and railroads wasn’t irrational, only optimistic. Another passenger came to the rail beside them and lit a cheroot. Jesse was a little surprised to see Bridger straighten from his comfortable slouch and move upwind. “You don’t smoke, Mr. Bridger?” “I was brought up in Hancock, Massachusetts, at the Shaker community there,” Bridger said. “They abjured tobacco, strong spirits, and the generative exercise, and one of those strictures stuck with me.” He must have been one of the orphans that the Shakers took in to raise in their odd faith. Jesse was intrigued, but the California taboo against asking a man about his Eastern past was very strong. Instead he changed the subject. “I thought about the reports from Los Robles last night.” Bridger made an encouraging noise. He had propped himself against another, less crowded, section of railing. “I’m proceeding from the assumption that nothing supernatural is involved since I have never been a man for spiritualism.” “Well enough.” “Instead I thought that our ghost might be a bandit up to no good, or perhaps one of the local Indians wandering about.” For the first time, Bridger’s smile was dry. “Take my word for it, a local Indian wouldn’t be wrapping himself in black clothing and white sheeting; he’d be selling the spare clothes and sheeting to spend the proceeds on square meals and bad liquor. Not that there are many Indians left. Between disease, drink, fighting, and being hunted out, they are fast disappearing from the region. As for the Mexicans, that wouldn’t be their way. And wherein lies the profit for a bandit?” “In that case, someone must be trying to scare the residents of the ranch. But, whew, what a way to go about the job. By all reports, none of the hands seem much upset, which accords with your opinions.” “A woman in white or a giant tarantula might upset them, but a rider in bedclothing is just loco.” “Mr. Lane’s written account is remarkably calm, too, but his wife departed the ranch just after the rider first appeared.”

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“I missed that amidst all the copied-over notes and accounts.” “She’s visiting her mother in Los Angeles.” Bridger looked out to sea. “That might be due to the ranch’s troubles, that might be fear of the ghost, or that might be only a visit.” “Or that might be some mixture of the troubles, the ghost, and a visit. My late wife—” Jesse stopped dead. Bridger held his peace, extending to Jesse the same privacy about the past that he had been extended. Jesse gathered himself and continued, “My late wife spent a great deal of the time while I was away to war visiting her relatives. When a woman has reason to fear, she seems to welcome company.” “There’s no sense in judging another man’s marriage from a distance,” Bridger said, and turned his head to quirk a smile at Jesse. “We’ll be in Los Angeles soon enough. Perhaps we can find some reason to speak with Mrs. Lane.” “As for the rest,” Jesse frowned, “as my Aunt implied, the accounts certainly balance. And if Mr. Lane truly has all the virtues imputed to him, he is ready to be uplifted as a Romish saint. All that can be said against him is that, although he never makes ignorant decisions, somehow he never makes the best ones, either. You know the Southland. Are his purchases disadvantageous?” “No, but not advantageous, either. The merchant-broker he uses in Los Angeles is not one I’d choose. And he rarely buys or sells at the best time, either.” “Lane’s commercial choices are too consistent: not bad, rarely good, but rather almost always mediocre. Given that, I cannot bring myself to believe the man is merely a fool.” “I think we’ve learned what we can without eyeing the local layout ourselves.” Bridger pointed a thumb toward the expanse of blue swells stretching out toward the horizon. “Just now we might as well enjoy our journey. Pleasant not to be wallowing through bad weather for a change.” “True.” Jesse’s mind leapt back toward the boardinghouse bedroom again, but he yanked it away, hard. “I believe that I will best benefit from this sunshine by sitting out on deck. At least, I’ll benefit if, for once, I can get my rawhide to cooperate.” Tilting his head in inquiry, Bridger asked, “Oh? What are you braiding, a riata?” “If you can call it that. A senior hand got me started braiding when I was learning the cattle trade. But I still have a while to go before I’ll finish anything that I’d use to rope a cow. Right now, it’s a way to keep my hands busy.”

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“A man has to start somewhere. Just now I’m working on a bosal. There’s always a use for more hackamores when you break horses.” Jesse considered. He and Bridger did need to give the appearance of men who’d spent time together. “Could I prevail upon you to check the tightness of my knotwork?” For some reason, Bridger seemed faintly amused. But his tone was friendly when he said, “It would be my pleasure.” After visiting the cabin below, they found an out-of-the-way coil of ship’s rope and settled in. Bridger untied and rolled out an old flour sack that had been neatly re-sewn into a pouch and removed from it well-worn tools that showed signs of loving care. Then he reached over to take Jesse’s length of four-strand braided rawhide and ran it through his fingers. “Well, sir, this isn’t as bad as you led me to believe. You have the makings of a passable throwing rope here.” Flattered, not wanting to make a fuss, Jesse said, “You’d better call me Jesse, Mr. Bridger. Putnam’s too easy to recognize and ‘sir’—” He trailed off before he could say that he wasn’t a Federal officer any more, and hadn’t earned “sir” in any other way. Not looking up from the half-done riata he was slowly inspecting, Bridger said, “I hope you aren’t brooding again, Jesse. That’s not good for a man.” He turned the running loop, the honda, of the rope, over in his hands and said, “Haven’t you ever had to work with someone you’d gone whoring with?” Able to decipher Bridger’s careful words, able to speak about the unspeakable if he didn’t have to meet the man’s eyes, Jesse said, “No. Before the late conflict I had friends and then I was courting. Afterward, my wife died, and I came to California. You know what I’ve been doing since that time.” Bridger nodded. “Maybe it’s good that we met, then.” He looked up. “Best call me Wardley instead of Bridger. It’s my first name, so I’ll answer to it.” He looked back down. “You could use a fancier knot here to keep your next honda tighter. I’ll show you one of these days if you like.” “Yes, thank you.” With a smile, Bridger handed back the rope. He picked up his own rawhide strings and a jar of some homemade grease that would soften them to a pliancy where they could be braided, and got to work. The air around them was loud with the engine noise and the sounds of waves, birds, and the other passenger’s conversation. Jesse and Bridger, though, worked in silence.

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III — Concerning the Ever-Present Perils of Overland Travel

“I believe that I have lost my heart. This boy is as easy a mount as I ever could desire.” Jesse had barely twitched the fingers of his left hand and his new gelding slowed. Carro, a dun gelding, might not be as large or long-legged as some Eastern breeds were, but he took his spade bit and carried it as gently as a farmwife toted eggs to market. Jesse yearned to try tossing a riata from Carro’s back. For an Easterner, Jesse was a good roper, and he could already tell that Carro would make him a better one. “You hold your hand well.” Bridger had picked out a grulla mare called Misteria for himself. Her name seemed appropriate to their task, and the mare was elegant for a mustang. Jesse smiled. “You don’t need to haul away on this fellow, unlike some of the ironmouthed brutes I had beneath me during the Rebellion. Not that I blame them: it took a certain temperament to face the cannons. But I doubt that I would be riding Carro now if you and your friend hadn’t been satisfied with how I’ve amended my rein-work out here in California.” Some might have found it presumptive of a seller to judge the riding skills of a prospective buyer, but Jesse approved. Even the fastest-working vaqueros needed many months to break a good mustang all the way to a spade bit, and that sort of labor was not to be thrown away by some ham-fisted fool. Every Yankee instinct Jesse had rebelled at the thought of the waste. Bridger said, “Kind of you to pay for Miss Misteria from our funds. She’ll do well up on the Playa.” “That sort of purchase is what our money is for, as far as I’m concerned. I’m merely grateful that Mr. Quintero was willing to sell, given how much I dislike borrowing horses.” Borrowed horses reminded Jesse of taking remounts off of the regimental string only to have them shot dead beneath him a few hours later. “Had you ridden with him in the past?” “Yes, in some of the last big cattle drives up the Central Valley to the gold fields. Back in ’53 and ’54, that would have been.” Jesse turned to quickly glance at Bridger as Carro reached a level stretch of the road and shifted his gait. Bridger was smiling slightly as if he could hear the question caught on the tip of Jesse’s tongue. There had been something about Mr. Quintero’s attitude towards Bridger — But you couldn’t ask that question about a man whose grandsons had been mucking out his stables even as you talked with him. At least, Jesse couldn’t ask that question, especially when he’d then eaten and slept under the man’s own roof.

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Bridger didn’t seem inclined to herd along the conversation. He fell silent, giving the slopes around them the attention that they demanded. The greened-over brush and tall grasses of spring could also conceal danger, and the lengthening shadows of afternoon made hiding that much easier. Even along this route, traversed at frequent intervals by riders, carts, and stagecoaches, brigands would occasionally cause trouble. There were still a few grizzlies in these mountains as well, although the ranchers and farmers had been poisoning them, and cougars could be a positive nuisance. They had left Santa Buenaventura early that morning, but traveled slowly, spending time getting acquainted with their new horses. Since he and Bridger were supposed to be simple, if senior, hands, it would look odd for them to have both recently changed mounts; they needed to appear as if they’d had their steeds for ages. Jesse had assumed that Bridger would ride like a centaur, as most horse-breakers did, but he had worried about his own ability to carry off this deception before he’d spent the day on Carro. As well as Jesse could judge on such short acquaintance, he wouldn’t have to worry about any spooking or shying at the first whiff of grizzly bear or human blood. Carro seemed to be as placid as Bridger. If Jesse had needed confirmation of his new horse’s temperament, he got it late that afternoon when they stopped to ease their legs and let the horses graze for a few minutes. Jesse walked away from the dirt road toward the chaparral at the edge of a ravine. There he halted by a thicket of entangled manzanita and California holly, enjoying the familiar, hawthorn-like scent even as he unbuttoned his trousers. From down amidst the deadwood at the roots of the manzanita he heard a noise like a dried gourd shaken fast by bony fingers. Jesse stilled, moving only his eyes. He could see the diamond-shaped head. It was a rattler, barely an arm’s length away from where he stood, and rattlers were mean this early in spring. The snake coiled onto itself, its head and upper body rearing back into an s-shaped loop, its tail still buzzing: five feet long if it was an inch. The seconds crept by. With care, quite slowly, Jesse tried to step backward. The snake’s head shifted. Jesse leapt. There was the sound of a shot. Jesse hit dirt. He rolled over, away, and was quickly back up onto his feet. “Dead?” From the corner of his eye he could see Carro, undisturbed by the buzz, the shot, or even the whiff of black powder, raise his head from cropping bunchgrass at the sound of a human voice. “Yes,” Bridger said, gaze directed toward the snake. His Remington Army revolver was still out, but his voice was even and his hand was steady as he holstered. “Best to be sure.” Approaching the rattlesnake warily, he prodded the now-still body with a long stick he had scooped up off the ground. “Do you want the skin?” Even after they were cut off, the heads could still bite when the snakes were fresh dead. “Leave him, if you would. Lord knows, there are enough of the creatures around.”

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“He’d dress out at about five and a half feet, large, but not a record,” Bridger said. He shook his head. “I’m sorry about risking that shot, Mr. Putnam, but I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t going to try for another strike.” Jesse didn’t let his reaction at hearing that the snake had actually struck appear on his face. “Jesse, Mr. Bridger. Given that you are able to save my life, I think you can remember to call me Jesse.” The stillness on Bridger’s face yielded a little. “As you say, Jesse.” His eyes shifted down and quickly up again; his expression warmed into amusement. Jesse realized that his trousers were unbuttoned. After a sigh, he said, “So much for discretion. If anyone needs me, I’ll be standing out in clear view, pissing by the road.” Bridger laughed. Given the circumstances, Jesse didn’t care. But he also took note of how proficient Bridger was with a firearm. Shooting a moving snake with a revolver was very hard, but Bridger’s bullet had hit the rattler not far below the neck. It took Jesse a while longer to wonder where Bridger had been looking, to see the rattler so soon. *** They camped well off the road that afternoon, next to a depression beneath some canyon oaks. These few months of the year, the hollow held a small, spring-fed pool. A stonelined fire pit and the trampled-back brush gave mute evidence that they weren’t the first riders to overnight here. Once, only a few years back, any traveler could have expected hospitality from the scattered ranchers and farmers, but that custom was giving way as the population increased. Jesse didn’t mind camping out in this fine weather, though. Wood wasn’t too hard to gather, and he had a fire built by the time Bridger had finished tending the horses and then hobbled them. They both had sniffed the water with care before allowing the horses to drink, so Jesse had no hesitation in using it to refill the canteens and add to the pot. He cooked up some beans and bacon to wrap in the tortillas they’d brought along from Ventura and then boiled the coffee. As he worked, he caught glimpses of Bridger moving around the fire, stowing their gear and tack, and then kicking a few rocks out of the way before he sat down against his saddle to clean his revolver. By the time that task was done and they’d both eaten, the sun had set. “You shoot well,” Jesse said at last. “Back in the ’forties and ’fifties we had a great deal to shoot at: grizzlies, bandits, and each other. Of the three, my fellow miners were the most dangerous creatures. It helped

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a lone prospector to have a reputation of being good with a gun. I still practice almost every day.” Given implied permission by this opening, Jesse asked, “You were on the Mother Lode, then? How did you end up as a vaquero?” Bridger shrugged. “I came west hoping for land, not gold, and I should have held on to that dream. Instead I was swept up by the booming about the Mother Lode. After I lost most of my first poke in San Francisco, I decided that I wasn’t made for riches. It wasn’t hard to get employment in those years, what with everyone still rushing out to the diggings. Since I’d helped tend our stock at Hancock, working with cattle seemed like a natural step to take. By ’52 I had drifted down to the southern ranchos, and I came along with the Playa Negra when it was sold to the Giffords in ’64. Mine hasn’t been an exciting life.” Jesse snorted at this obvious taradiddle, but only said “I have had all together enough excitement in my life.” “You were in the Union Army.” Bridger made the words a statement and not a question. “With the First Massachusetts Cavalry. Now, that was an exciting life.” There was a great deal more trouble than excitement in war, and even more trouble had arrived after the surrender: his wife’s death, his fleeing west from the family business, and his perverse desires coiling ever tighter, ready to strike. Even now, looking at Bridger, he could feel the want thrumming all the way from the tips of his fingers down deep into his groin. How could the man seem so calmly contented? What was behind that placid face? There were few things more foolish than misbehaving in the so-called wilderness, Jesse knew. Nothing stood out in near-empty territory like a campfire before it was banked, and anything that a man got up to while silhouetted by its light could be observed by anyone wandering by in the dark. It did not pay to be distracted when there might be danger. That was simple wisdom. Jesse found that he didn’t care about simple wisdom. Bridger’s expression lost its calm in the shifting firelight as Jesse’s knees hit the dirt in front of him. However Jesse had both hands on Bridger’s fly before the man could start talking again. After that, a bleak stare was enough to keep Bridger’s fine lips shut until Jesse’s hands could rub what he wanted beneath the rough, twill fabric. Up and down once, up and down twice, and he saw Bridger’s head tilt back and those eyes half-close. One belt-buckle and five buttons later, Jesse could gauge Bridger’s reaction more directly than by his expression. He waited until he’d worked the cock in his hand into hardness to ask, “Keep going?” It was a hell of an inquiry, given what he was doing.

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“That’s not a fair question, Jesse,” Bridger got out. “You’re right.” Jesse looked at what he was holding, and leaned forward. He wanted to kiss; instead, he slowly, deliberately licked the head of Bridger’s cock. “Oh,” Bridger said, and followed that up with the strangled sound of a man swallowing more words as Jesse worked around the shaft. Profanity, most likely: as near as Jesse had been able to tell during these past few days, the man just did not curse. His mouth against what he wanted, Jesse said, “I won’t ask next time.” Parting his lips, he pushed them slowly over Bridger’s cock, dragging them along the skin, savoring the growing hardness, the taste of salt and skin, and the feeling of life. As Jesse worked over Bridger for long minutes, head moving up and down, mouth and tongue busy, he could feel Bridger’s hands moving across his back and shoulders as if the man didn’t know where to take hold. At last Bridger set his hands against the earth behind him, braced himself, and let Jesse have his way. When he was ready to spend he stirred again, but Jesse squeezed Bridger’s thighs hard through his trousers, stilling him, if not his cock. Bridger’s seed was bleach-bitter, but Jesse swallowed anyhow. Somehow the taste seemed right. When he pulled away and looked at Bridger’s cock, gleaming with spit, still mostly hard, he knew that he was smiling. He didn’t know what the smile would look like to Bridger. Leaning forward, grasping the tip of the cock with his fingers, he said, “There you are.” “Your turn?” Jesse let go, startled. “You would—” He paused and licked his lips. Then he said, “No.” Without another word, Bridger’s eyes drifted downward. “That’s not what I want, no.” Before Bridger could say anything, Jesse started unbuttoning himself. The touch of his own hand made him hungry for Bridger’s mouth, but he added, “I’ll do this.” “Okay,” Bridger said mildly. He had both arms resting now on his folded knees, and he didn’t seem the least bit concerned that his now-soft cock still hung loose from his trouser fly. Jesse’s voice continued on its own, “You could watch.” Bridger raised his eyebrows, visible even in the fire light, but the words were serene as he said again, “Okay.” He watched Jesse working himself with calm attention, gaze focused on Jesse’s hands. Only when Jesse was done, crouching before him shuddering slightly,

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did Bridger lean forward and reach out a hand to smooth down Jesse’s cowlick. “I hope you enjoyed that.” “Would I have done what I did if I didn’t enjoy it?” “Maybe.” Still calm, Bridger reached for his canteen, and then pulled out his handkerchief before he started cleaning himself off. Jesse knelt for a moment, watching, before he shook off his surprise at the single word of Bridger’s response and got up to do the same. By the time Jesse was done, Bridger was already unstrapping his bedroll. “You want to bank the fire? We can take turns keeping watch.” “No.” Jesse hesitated and then repeated, “No.” Bridger nodded. “Good night, then.” He removed his hat and boots, unwrapped his neckerchief, undid his belt, took off his coat and vest, and rolled himself up in his blankets. Even before Jesse had finished tending the fire, Bridger was asleep. Jesse stayed awake for another half an hour, looking at such stars as he could see this close to the full moon and listening to the coyotes yipping up in the mountains. He was as tense as on the night before a battle. But he knew it wasn’t any ghost that he feared.

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IV — Cow-Town of the Angels

“This place has grown a lot since the last time I was here; about five years ago, that was,” Bridger said. “There are quite a few two-storied structures now, and they’re employing more bricklayers.” “Do you think that anyone will remember you?” “I don’t believe so. We passed through on our way to drive some horses north from a bankrupt rancho. I was only one more hand: nothing memorable.” Jesse glanced over at Bridger and then decided to hold his peace. Either Bridger was unduly modest or keeping to their assumed roles: neither possibility was worth taxing him over. Jesse turned his attention back to the buildings along the roadside. Los Angeles in no way deserved its lovely setting on this broad plain between the mountains and the Pacific, Jesse decided. Even in the rainy season the streets were dusty, the older adobe and single-story, frame buildings were grubby, and just now, as they approached the small business district, they were riding around a couple of locals rolling around in the dirt together as they fought. “Do you want to sit down to a proper meal?” he asked Bridger. Behind them, a woman ran out of a house and was scolding the quarreling pair in lively, carrying Spanish. “You’re interested in finding a restaurant?” It took a moment for Jesse to answer, distracted as he was by a Spanish curse that he had not previously heard. “I was considering that, yes. Given how quickly this trip has gone, I thought we might even stay in town overnight if we could find respectable lodgings.” Bridger grinned. “By all accounts, that would give us a choice between the Bella Union Hotel and the Bella Union Hotel.” Jesse considered the coincidence of names between the hotel and the melodeon in which he and Bridger had met. Then he considered the prospect of a large bed with good springs and clean linens. Finally, he considered what he had done the previous night. Changing subjects, he said, “If there is any respectable way to obtain an introduction to her, we should certainly see if we can speak with Mrs. Lane.” “We could ask her for directions, saying that we’d heard tales in town about a masked bandit on the trail between Los Robles and Los Angeles.” “Asking her for directions might do for an excuse to speak with her, but we will need an excuse to actually find her first.” Jesse waved toward a saloon bar that they were passing called Rowen’s Place. At least the building wasn’t decaying like many of the older, adobe structures were in this town. “Shall we have a drink?”

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Bridger nodded. Inside the place was clean and crammed with men taking their luncheons in a glass. Jesse and Bridger crowded up to the bar between a seemingly sporting Irishman regaling the barkeep with a long anecdote about running races along the proposed railroad route to San Pedro and a tall character in a worn-at-the-elbows sack suit trading smutty stories with some laborer friends. After the barkeep disentangled himself long enough to take their order, Jesse asked for a grog and Bridger for a beer. When both were provided, Jesse inquired after the whereabouts of Mrs. Lane. “Mrs. Lane?” The barkeep shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the lady’s name.” Hearing the barkeep, the tall man to Jesse’s left turned and spoke. There was a strong note of the South about his words. “If it’s a woman you want, you should try Nigger Alley. Of course you might have to settle for a Celestial along there.” A few of the other patrons laughed. Jesse tried to keep the scowl off of his face. He failed. He knew his reaction was foolish, but the Abolitionist dinner guests of his childhood had left him with a strong distaste for the common name for a Negro. Perhaps sensing Jesse’s irritation, Bridger asked, “You’re speaking of the old Calle de los Negros?” The tall fellow’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem to like our American street names, sir. Are you, by any chance, a bluebelly?” “No, sir, that would have been me,” Jesse said, keeping his voice soft. “Do you have some difficulty with the notion of a man having served honorably during the Late Conflict? As for myself, I take pride in my actions.” Next to Jesse, Bridger smiled faintly, but he had set down his beer and his hand was on his belt, resting close to his holster. Jesse added, “Thank you for your helpful suggestion, though.” The fellow eyed him, curled his lip, and returned to his drink and his companions. Without another word, Jesse drained his own grog, got up, and left. He didn’t have to look to know that Bridger would follow him. As they went along the plank sidewalk toward the hitching post where they had tied their horses, Jesse heard a cough and whirled, his hand dropping down toward his revolver. The Irishman from the bar raised his hands pacifistically. “Now, then. Now, then. This establishment is a terrible one for the secesh customers, but the liquor here is good. I hope you weren’t offended.” His gaze moved briefly over to the carbine Jesse holstered on Carro and then back to Jesse’s face.

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His humor restored by the glance, Jesse said, “Not so offended, sir, that I intend to return inside with a Spencer carbine.” The Irishman shrugged. “Not so long ago, a Southern gentleman was going from store to store asking for a pistol so that he could shoot another fellow with whom he was debating just such a regional matter.” “And did he find his pistol?” Bridger asked. “Oh, that he did, but the other fellow recovered well enough afterward that the Committee didn’t string the Colonel up from a lamppost. This is Los Angeles, sir.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “It pays to be cautious. For example, your new acquaintance from the saloon is a friend of those lads from El Monte. They’ve been mostly quiet this past year, but they’ve always loved a good quarrel with a Union man.” Jesse snorted. “We weren’t interested in quarreling, only in directions to the residence of Mrs. Lane.” “To Mrs. Lane’s? Why, she lives with her mother, the Widow Taberman, on Fort Street over by First.” He smiled, probably at Jesse’s quizzical expression, and added, “Sure, and don’t they sell hats for fine ladies out of their front parlor? There’s not a pretty woman in this town who doesn’t like a fancy hat, and I like a pretty woman.” *** Mrs. Lane was a lot like her mother’s house, giving a strong impression of neat and enduring respectability combined with no particular pretenses to beauty. She had obviously passed her twentieth year and had mouse-brown hair, blue eyes, and the sort of subdued freckles that went along with always wearing a bonnet while still spending time outdoors. Her features were of the hewn-out kind that Jesse was used to seeing in the northern parts of New England. Jesse knew that he was not a great judge of female pulchritude, but Mrs. Lane struck him as strong and handsome rather than pretty. Her dress was nice, though: the cotton was sprigged with periwinkles and neatly sewn. To Jesse’s surprise, he and Bridger were escorted into a small, sunny front room with a few well-stuffed chairs, on one of which Mrs. Lane seated herself. Usually vaqueros were barely tolerated inside the main house, let alone allowed into the morning room, part of the women’s domain. He glanced around at the rag rug, the crowded bookshelf, the wicker basket of embroidery, and the wall hung with an etching of The Stag in the Glen along with several daguerreotypes. There was also a small fireplace, which looked to be rarely used. Jesse was glad. Women around open flames made him fidget, and he needed to concentrate on sounding like a straightforward stock-tender as he said, “Thank you for having the kindness to speak with us, ma’am.”

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“Not at all, Mr. Godfrey. You have questions about the route between here and Los Robles?” “Yes, ma’am. Wardley and I heard that there might be a bandit active along the trail.” “No bandit, no, not that I’ve heard.” Her gaze was level. “Some of the hands were speaking of a ghost before I began my visit here.” Jesse looked at Bridger; Bridger at Jesse. It was Bridger who asked, “A ghost?” “Yes.” Her hands pleated her skirt for a moment before they stilled. “Ridiculous, I know, but some employees have left the ranch: one or two of the shepherds, I believe. They can be superstitious, given how much time they spend alone.” Jesse let himself look dubious. “Sounds like a bandit to me, if you don’t mind my saying so.” “Nonsense. No one has been robbed, not even Mr. Lane when riding back from town with the month’s wages.” “Maybe it’s a fellow who wants a job real bad?” Bridger hazarded. “Someone who’s replaced one of the hands who left?” “Perhaps. In any case, there is certainly a mischief-maker at work, so I thought that you should be warned.” She paused and then her chin firmed. “I am surprised that you knew my direction to ask me about this rider.” “We got your whereabouts from a fellow in a saloon bar, ma’am.” It wasn’t hard to feign embarrassment; Jesse was a little embarrassed now that he considered the brief argument. “An Irish fellow.” If he was creating the impression that he and Bridger had been gossiping about Los Robles at the bar, so much the better. Common gossip was less suspicious than uncommon knowledge. “Mr. Flannigan.” She said the name with an exasperated certainty that didn’t demand a response. Then she added, tone somehow both brisker and relieved, “Do you need directions as well, or do you have them?” Jesse wondered for a moment if she’d been thinking that they’d gotten directions from someone else than Flannigan. “We wouldn’t mind being sure, ma’am.” She nodded. Jesse continued, “Ride out about fifteen miles along El Camino until we see the third range of hills to the east, and then look for the trail marked by two thick, oak stakes with an old ox yoke raised between them. Follow that trail east through the low pass and into the valley beyond, and we’ll see the ranch buildings as we top the second ridge.” “You are correct. The trail is well defined and smooth enough to get a cart along. You won’t have to worry about wildfire during this season, but be wary of the hill streams on

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the property. If it rains, a few of them can run stronger than you’d imagine from their looks. And, as you likely know, the rattlers are out.” “Thank you, ma’am,” Jesse said. “We just wanted to be sure about what we’d heard. Tall tales can cause problems.” “I esteem honesty.” For a worried moment, Jesse thought that she was somehow referring to his and Bridger’s false pretenses. Then, seeing her distant gaze, he realized that she was thinking of her own concerns. “Would you like us to bring along any messages to Mr. Lane, ma’am?” Bridger asked. From his attitude, you’d never suspect him of any but the kindest of motivations. Her eyes focused; Bridger had all her attention. “No,” she said, the word abrupt. Then she said, “If I have any messages for my husband, I will convey them myself when I decide the time is ripe. That day may come soon, but it isn’t today.” Her tone was not rude, but it unmistakably ended the conversation. “Thank you, ma’am,” Jesse said again, and “Thank you ma’am,” Bridger echoed. They both put their hats back on. Since there didn’t seem to be a parlor maid, they went ahead of Mrs. Lane to the front door. As they passed, from behind a closed door across the hall they could hear a murmur of feminine voices, one older, two younger: Jesse imagined that the merits of wearing ostrich feathers versus peacock feathers on one’s hat were being debated. Mrs. Lane held the front door open for them and they both touched their hats to her before they went down the adobe-brick front walk to the street and their horses. They’d mounted and ridden away before Jesse said, “Mrs. Lane’s not visiting her mother for her mother’s sake.” “No,” Bridger said. “Although she doesn’t seem to be afraid of the ghost rider, either.” “Did you notice the paler patch on the wallpaper among the daguerreotypes? “Yes.” “Would you wager against a picture of Mr. Lane being the one that someone took down?” “No,” Bridger said, and smiled faintly as he added, “and not just because the Shakers also abjured gambling. There’s something worldlier at work here than a phantom.” “I agree.” Bridger said, “The moon will be near full tonight.”

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“Let’s partake of a quick meal and then start out to Los Robles. I’m curious to see if we will meet this ghost rider.” Bridger didn’t reply, but Jesse could still sense his agreement.

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V — On the Nocturnal and Diurnal Meditations of Ranch-Hands

As they rode southeast from Los Angeles, the day first warmed into late afternoon and then cooled as the sun sank low and shadows stretched toward the east from the low coastal hills. Jesse found the countryside soothing. A man could see quite a distance across the patchwork of grasses, cactus, and sage, with only a few low-growing willows around the seasonal watercourses to interrupt the view. Even this far inland from the ocean, the hills to the east were still lush from the recent rains with scattered canyon oaks adding darker olive accents to the dominant light green of the landscape. To either side of the road the countryside was splattered with the yellow of mustard blossoms. Off in the distance to the west, white dots moved down across a hillside: a herd of sheep most likely chivied by some Basque shepherd, Bridger told Jesse. “Are you putting any of the Playa Negra acreage into sheep?” Jesse asked. He wasn’t fond of the animals himself, given how they managed to be both stubborner and stupider than cows. They were harder on the land than well-tended cattle, too. “No. I believe Mr. Williams – my manager – wants to run sheep, but he hasn’t gotten approval for his plans from San Francisco yet.” Jesse was beginning to hear the nuances in Bridger’s calm tones. “You disagree with his plans?” “The ranch does need to diversify, but sheep are just as vulnerable to drought as cattle are. We can water the horses, but too many cattle or sheep will overwhelm even our hidden springs.” He turned his head to smile at Jesse. “The Giffords are good at finding prime territory with subtle virtues.” Turning back to scan the land around him he said, “Water’s what matters out here, not pretty views or winter-lush fields. If the transport was better around the Playa, we could make a good profit some years by dry-cropping wheat or corn, but there’d be no way to ship that much grain in bulk. We won’t see a railroad for years in Santa Barbara County, if ever.” “You’re not displeased.” This time Jesse wasn’t asking a question. “I loved this country when I came to it, but everything I mooned over is changing fast. When the railroads come, everything will change faster still.” “ ‘Dis es ton auton potamon ouk an embaiês.’ ” Bridger grinned at Jesse’s unthinking assumption that he would understand Greek, and Jesse hastily added a translation. “ ‘You never step in the same river waters twice.’ Nonetheless, I grasp your concern.” Jesse turned to gaze ahead, considering for a minute. “If I was managing the Playa Negra, I’d still run the horses in the hills, but also find some crop that could tolerate a long ship to market and plant that on the bottom acres. This land reminds me of Italy or Spain; maybe Mediterranean crops could resist the droughts. Olives, perhaps?”

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“The old mission fathers in Santa Barbara grew grapes and citrus. So do the German Utopians over in Anaheim.” “Raisins, oranges, lemons: they could be shipped.” Jesse stared out across the plains. There was a patch of late blooming wildflowers that the sheep had somehow missed, waving gently in the inshore breeze. “Nice country around here, if nasty citizenry. I had heard that there were a lot of Confederate sympathizers in this part of the state.” “I know you read in the ledger notes that Mr. Lane was originally from Maryland before he moved north to Maine.” There was no emphasis in Bridger’s voice, but there did not have to be any. Maryland had been held in the Union only by force. Jesse might need to mind his manners. He didn’t take offense: he had gotten up on his high horse in that saloon bar, after all, and almost provoked a useless and possibly dangerous fight. Jesse said, “His lead hand is a Marylander, too, if I remember aright, and some of the hands are from south of the Mason-Dixon. But I doubt that Lane himself will be the sort to reopen old wounds or my uncle would not have hired him. After all, Uncle Hiram has to work with the man, if only at a distance. We Giffords and Putnams were all strong abolitionists and are still staunch Republicans.” He could hear the dry note in his own voice as he continued, “I’ve always thought our efforts in that direction were our way of atoning for the sins that founded our fortune. Best for us to balance the ledgers before committing new sins that pile the greenbacks even higher.” Although Bridger chuckled, something about him seemed thoughtful, too. Not really wanting to know what the man was thinking, Jesse was relieved to observe, as they topped a gentle rise, that the gate to Los Robles was about a half-mile down the far side of the slope to their left. As always out west, the so-called gate seemed strangely isolated with no fence around it, but lumber was too dear and rocks too difficult to be used for miles of fencing. If anyone ever solved the fence problem matters might change, but just now ranch boundaries were for settling water rights, not for strictly confining herds. When they entered the first range of hills on Los Robles, they also lost the setting sun. Their way wended up a canyon into the shadows of the oak groves. Off to one side Jesse thought he could hear running water: probably one of the creeks of which Mrs. Lane had spoken. There were no other sounds of anything moving through the brush, aside from the usual stirring of birds and small beasts. None of the ranch’s sheep herds grazed here just now, although droppings and trampled undergrowth showed signs of their recent passage. “Do you want to set up camp? Or we could keep watch up there,” Bridger said, indicating a small, flat-topped hill to their right with his chin. The hill was crowned by some sort of rocky outcrop and it looked like it might command a view of both the trail and the surrounding countryside. Jesse said, “Let’s climb up there and see what we have in the way of a look-out perch.”

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There was a trail to the top, if one more traversed by game than men, and the brush was sparse enough across the crowning rocks that they could camp. Better still, the layers of the outcrop sloped back and away from the canyon’s edge, so they wouldn’t be silhouetted by moonlight if they kept low. Shading his eyes against the sunset that was visible again from the hilltop, Jesse said, “This does seem like the only western route where our so-called ghost could ride onto the ranch at night.” “I wouldn’t take a horse off-trail through this kind of brushy terrain after dark,” Bridger agreed. Jesse looked at Bridger and caught the quirk of his lips. They both knew that only a long chance would bring the ghost rider out tonight. However, ignoring opportunities didn’t pay off in the long run. Without further discussion, they clambered back downhill to care for the horses and fetch their packs. Given the tendency of horses to whicker at strange horses, Misteria and Carro had to be haltered well back from the trail, close to the small stream. Before they let the pair drink, both Bridger and Jesse checked along the stream bank with deep suspicion – sheep had a tendency to foul water sources – but found no sign of dung or carcasses in the water. The grass around the banks wasn’t badly cropped, either. So, after haltering the horses, Jesse and Bridger clambered back up the trail to the hilltop in the last bit of twilight. They would keep a dark camp tonight. Given how voices could carry in unknown terrain, they also couldn’t talk much. After they finished eating a cold and quiet dinner, Jesse asked, “Do you want the first watch?” Bridger nodded agreement, and without further ado, Jesse rolled himself into his blankets and forced himself towards sleep. It was not as hard as he would have predicted. Even for a rancher used to the saddle, long rides were tiring. Meaning only to close his eyes for a minute and try to think of something relaxing, Jesse instead dozed off, to wake with Bridger’s hand on his shoulder. “Anything?” Jesse asked, sitting up, keeping the word low. “Nothing,” Bridger said, a quiet voice in the dark. Briefly, the back of his hand rested against Jesse’s cheek. Before Jesse could do more than start in surprise at the intimacy, Bridger had turned away to untie his blanket roll. It was better not to make a fuss. Jesse shifted his own blankets until he was lying prone near the edge of the outcrop, overlooking the darkness of the oaks and the pale trace of the road below. Deliberately, he left a pebble or two under his blankets where they would dig into him. Just now he needed the discomfort. Bridger settled quickly. He was a steady sleeper who didn’t snore. Jesse had plenty of undisturbed time to identify such constellations as he could see sharing the night sky with

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a bright moon and to slap at the occasional insect attracted to his presence. Without his braiding to distract him, he could also think. He would rather not have thought. He liked Bridger, liked him too well given that he had known the man for less than a week. Jesse wished that he could believe this growing friendship to be soul calling to soul in the sort of rapturous spiritual fellowship he had so ardently desired when he was young. He feared, though, that his animal urges were what spurred him onward toward intimacy. Not that such rushed intimacies were Bridger’s fault. The vaquero seemed a good enough sort, aside from his ease with the same thorn that stabbed Jesse. And it certainly was not Bridger’s fault that Jesse still wanted him. It was with real relief that Jesse heard the sound of a horse and rider. He crawled a bit closer to the edge of the outcrop, careful not to dislodge anything that might cascade down into the oaks below, giving them away. He and Bridger had been right about sound carrying. Jesse could hear the horse long before he could see it. Still, the sound of hooves grew louder more quickly than Jesse night have predicted. Whoever this rider was must know the trail or he would not have dared to take his horse along at this pace so late at night, moon or no moon. And now Jesse could hear something else besides hoof beats. The rider was singing. Jesse rolled his eyes. This wasn’t their ghost, unless that supernatural worthy knew all the words to “The Bonny Blue Flag.” Somehow, if that had been the case, Jesse thought one of the haunted witnesses would have mentioned ghostly inclinations towards hymnody. The rider must be a ranch-hand from Los Robles. He only caught a quick glimpse of the rider from above. Jesse could just make out that the fellow was lanky, long, and wearing a planter’s hat. The moonlight bleached out both the rider’s coloring and that of his horse. He had a baritone that might have been compelling without the hindering contribution of alcohol: the last stanza had been sour as old lemon juice. There was nothing ghostly about the rider, but Jesse hoped that the fellow wouldn’t meet an owl. Matters were complicated enough without any drunken accounts of ghosts born from a flurry of feathers. Jesse kept still until the sounds of the rider faded off to the east and the small rustlings of night animals in the brush resumed. Then he took up his watch again, only to find himself, perhaps an hour later, humming “The Bonny Blue Flag” under his breath. Annoyed, he forced himself to stop. Then, a minute or two later, he stiffened. Bridger had every excuse to have missed the possibility, but the idea certainly should have occurred to Jesse before now. He knew perfectly well that there was more than one sort of sheet-garbed nightrider out and about these days. ***

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“The Ku Klux Klan?” Bridger frowned thoughtfully. “Now that you mention the notion, they might fit our description. But what would they be doing anywhere near Los Angeles?” He snorted. “When I first rode through Los Angeles in the ’fifties, there were only a handful of southern Negros in the whole town. The most famous of them was notorious for supporting the Democrats. I doubt anything has changed much since then.” “Do you remember reading about any Los Robles ranch-hands being Negros?” Jesse gently twitched the reins he held in his left hand, and Carro veered away from the patch of trailside wildflowers toward which he had been drifting. “No, and pretty much all the cattle-tenders I’ve met out here have been Mexican, with a few Irish and other sorts thrown into the mix for spicing.” “My cook up north is a Negro.” “That’s rare, though. Usually cooks are Chinamen.” “True.” Jesse scowled. “I wish we had a sketch of this ghost. I’ve seen engravings of the Kluxers in both Harper’s and the Police Gazette, and it would be useful to know how close any resemblance might be.” He caught the grin as Bridger said, “Why, Jesse. I wouldn’t have thought you were a man for engravings of dance hall girls and sensational articles about brutal murderers.” “I only bother with the Gazette for the sake of the athletic illustrations,” Jesse retorted and then paused, stunned that the words had actually come out of his mouth. Bridger’s grin blossomed into a wide smile. He had excellent teeth. “They can be rather handsome, those boxers in their trunks and undershirts.” Jesse rode without saying anything for a while longer, and then asked, “How can you be so calm?” He was surprised to find that he sounded curious rather than craven. “Why do you worry so?” Bridger retorted. His question did not make sense; Jesse found that he was shaking his head in confusion. Bridger continued, “You’re not a fearful man, Jesse, not with your history. And you must know by now that I’d never give you away.” Jesse gnawed his lip. He’d started this conversation. Why was it that he now had nothing to say? Bridger, on the other hand, did have more to say. “I hope it’s not shame that tears at you. A man should take care, but as for shame? I’m disinclined to hang my head before anyone who’ll pay to visit young girls kept in cages, or go to the sort of cribs where they spread oilskin across the foot of the bed so the client’s boots won’t soil the sheets. And those fellows will never see the inside of a jail or the end of a rope for what they do.”

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Bridger’s free hand made a cutting gesture. “Even so-called virtuous men treat their wives in ways that I wouldn’t treat a mule. These same paragons bad-talk the Shakers, folks more chaste with each other, kinder to each other, than their critics will ever be. No, I feel no shame before my peers.” Suddenly, Bridger looked sad. “As for criticism from the All Good, maybe matters would be different if I was a pious man. I’m not.” “Such acts as we commit are also said to be unnatural,” Jesse said, interested in hearing Bridger’s response. “You must have grown up in town,” Bridger said. “I didn’t. I grew up tending stock out in the countryside.” He shook his head. “If it’s unnatural, someone forgot to tell the animals. If it’s inhuman, someone forgot to tell you and me. I’ve never understood what the fuss is all about, but then there’s a lot of fussing in this world that I just don’t get.” Bridger’s arguments were far from flawless, but they echoed thoughts that Jesse had pondered as the years had passed by. Even as a boy, he’d seen how hard it was to take a road that one’s fellows avoided. He knew that many of the unthinking truths men hewed to were false, but— “Alas that I had your serenity,” Jesse said, with a smile that was probably wry. “I wish I had a touch of whatever stirs you so.” Seeing Jesse shake his head again, Bridger said, “Maybe then I’d ride a little harder toward what I wanted. I settle down too easily.” This was the sort of talk one did not share with a new acquaintance, but it somehow seemed fitting coming from Bridger: one more sign of the intimacy toward which Jesse was stampeding almost blindly. “Mr. Bridger, my apologies. I find I can’t speak of these matters any longer.” Bridger gave his usual shrug, a possible sign of the complacency he claimed. “We’re almost to the ranch buildings anyhow.” “Again, alas.” “Oh?” “I had a clever plan to divert you from our previous talk by inquiring if we really needed to worry about flooding in these hills.” “Well, I don’t intend to settle down here and find out. I’m not that easy.” They both laughed, and Bridger continued, “There’ll be plenty of other chances to chew the cud while we’re riding out to check those cows.” “True.” Overly eager or not, Jesse couldn’t bring himself to regret the chance for further conversation with Bridger.

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VI — A Man May Be Measured by How He Treats the Help

In common with most local ranches, the adobe buildings at Los Robles didn’t make many concessions to the possibility of bad weather. They were clustered together only for convenience and not for protection. Even the later, American, additions to the main house didn’t have much of a pitch to the roofs, and the coat of paint atop the whitewashed adobe was a grace note, not a necessity to keep the house from dissolving back into the earth from which it had come. The only physical admissions that the locals weren’t ranching in paradise were the windmill that pumped water up from what appeared to be a new well and the line of young pepper trees east of the house. One day those trees would both cast shade and break the occasional desert winds of summer. Everything appeared well-managed. Nothing hinted at incompetence. Someone had even reused an old wooden beam as a hitching rail by clamping it onto stone pillars beneath two of the locus trees in front of the main building. Jesse and Bridger dismounted by the rail without discussion. Now, when they needed to make their presence known, was probably the only time that they would enter the house by its front door. As they swung out of their saddles, a man came out of the house and paused on the front porch to say something to the ranch-hand who accompanied him. Then he looked up before coming over to the two of them. He was wearing a well-cut suit, if a dusty one; his vaquero’s hat looked incongruous above a tie. Jesse thought that he must be Mr. Lane. “Good morning, sir,” Bridger said, removing his hat. Jesse took his hat off, too, but let Bridger speak first: as the elder of the pair of them, Bridger would normally have been senior hand. “You fellows here for a reason?” The question wasn’t hostile, only blunt. “Yes, sir.” Jesse said. He placed a restraining hand on Carro’s neck since someone had planted flowers here and there around the main house. Carro was proving to be a floral opportunist, and he was neither hitched nor were his reins dangling in the trained-in message for the gelding to keep still. Bridger added, “We’re the hands from the Playa Negra, come to look over the eastern cows.” The man nodded, studying them. Then he extended a hand to Bridger and said curtly, “I’m Thomas Lane, the boss here.” Lane was a handsome man about Bridger’s age, tanned dark as a Mexican and with brown hair and eyes. He was stocky, but not fat, and his handgrip was firm. As near as Jesse could judge, Lane had shed most of his Tidewater accent. With the ease of long

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practice, Jesse quashed his impulse to admire the man’s looks at some length as Bridger said, “How do you do, sir. I’m Wardley, and this is Jesse.” “I received the telegraph about you two. Last I was informed, the herd was up Greasewood Canyon, so you might as well take the chance to get settled and eat a meal before you ride out.” He turned toward the hand by the door and called out, “Sam! Show Jesse and Wardley here to that empty room in the west wing.” Then he looked back at them. “I hope you’ll excuse me. The supply wagons for the sheepherders go out today and they need inspecting.” With another nod, he strode away. Bridger turned to watch him go, unabashed. Jesse, though, shook hands with Sam, who was a sunburnt blond with the tracery of veins high across his cheeks of a man who drank hard. However, his grip was strong enough. He started off with, “Now, you boys are doing well for yourselves.” His accent confirmed his origins, which made his choice of address verge on rudeness. “Why’s that?” Jesse asked. “Most new hands have to make do with the old storage house down by the stream if they’re lucky and brush huts if they aren’t.” Bridger, who had joined them, shrugged. “We weren’t sent to do this job because we were green hides.” “Huh,” Sam said dubiously, but he guided them and the horses around the great adobe pile willingly enough. Jesse was interested to see signs of recent construction. The ledger reports had told him that most of the west wing was fairly new, added on to the original house after the rancho had been sold to the Giffords. However, the outbuildings that they were passing now were fresh. Los Robles seemed to be walking a fine line between being profitable and being prosperous, not what he would have expected from Aunt Ada’s account or the ledger’s figures. They walked along the well-trodden dirt by the side porch that stretched almost the entire length of the wing, passing the kitchen and hands’ dining room, passing the wood room and laundry, and pausing by three narrow doors. Each door led to a tiny bedroom otherwise isolated from the house, Sam told them. “This middle room is empty, but I can shift Old Miguel to free up another room.” Sam said. Jesse knew a hint when he heard one. “Wardley and I can share if you have two cots.” “You won’t be left with room to breathe,” Sam said in the tone of a man who was willing to be persuaded.

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Bridger just grunted, and that was that. Sam led them on around the end of the wing toward the stables. When Carro and Misteria were tended, Jesse and Bridger picked up their kits and headed across the patio behind the main house. They had to veer around a couple of dogs and a cat sunning on the bricks to reach the west door of the hands’ dining room. That room stretched across the entire wing from the patio back to the side porch, making it a convenient shortcut. Inside, a pair of hands were already sitting down to an early lunch: ranch meals were often staggered on busy days. They looked up and nodded at Sam, eyed Jesse and Bridger with curiosity, and then went back to their food. Sam called out to the cook through the open door to the kitchen, “Two more for luncheon, Ying!” and kept walking. When they got back outside, he said, “I’ll leave you here. You can find me in the shearing barn when you’re done eating and need directions.” “Thank you, sir,” Bridger said. Jesse nodded. “Huh,” Sam said again, and then walked off toward the blacksmith’s shed without elaborating. Bridger and Jesse looked at each other. The fellow didn’t seem so much suspicious as unconcerned. “Do you think that Sam is Mr. Stockett, the lead hand?” Bridger asked. “The Tidewater accent is right.” Skipping any more conversation that might be overheard, they went and left their belongings in the small room that they would share, stowing most of them under the single cot now in there. Then they returned to the dining room. Within, they found seats on the wooden bench across from the two ranch-hands. Seemingly responding to the cook’s instructions in Chinese, audible through the open door, a young Chinaman came in and dropped forks and knives atop the oilcloth in front of them without a word. The cook, more vocal in his own kingdom, rattled off a few more comments in his native tongue to the youngster, who disappeared into the kitchen to reappear with two loaded plates and two mugs of coffee. As the smells of cooking had portended, they were being fed mutton stew and onions with a spoonful of frijoles on the side of the plate. Jesse wasn’t surprised to find that the food was better than some of what he’d eaten at the Lick House. After a few minutes of quiet chewing, one of the pair across from them looked up from neatly chasing his beans around with a slice of bread to ask, “Are you two the fellows come down from the Playa Negra?” He had an accent born somewhere on the

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Mississippi and a scar on his jaw that might have resulted from a brush with a bayonet. Jesse took the excuse of a full mouth to let Bridger answer. “That’s right.” Bridger yanked a thumb at himself. “Wardley.” He pointed a forefinger towards Jesse. “Jesse.” “I’m Floyd. How do.” Floyd reached over the table to shake hands with Bridger and then extended his hand toward Jesse. “How do you do,” Jesse said, resigned. At least the fellow didn’t let go his grip upon hearing the Boston tones in Jesse’s speech. “Your herd is laired up in Greasewood Canyon. We’ve been sending someone up there every other day or so to be sure they don’t wander off into trouble.” Floyd smiled. “Are you fixin’ to move them along north by yourselves?” “We’re only the vanguard,” Jesse said. “Several fellows will be here in about a fortnight from the Lone Tree to drive them up toward the Owens valley.” “They must be some fine creatures to justify all this fuss,” Floyd said. “Well, they have very long horns, you see,” Bridger said, his face straight. “Even longer than the locals’.” Floyd shook his head. “We had noticed that, I assure you.” The door to the patio opened and another cowhand came in. He was tall, blond, and vaguely familiar. His face, Jesse decided, resembled Sam’s. “Ying, you pigtailed Mongolian! How about some grub?” The voice was familiar, too. Jesse had last heard it singing. So far, speech was not an improvement. The kitchen was silent, but the young Chinaman reappeared with another plate of food. When he placed it in front of the newcomer, he kept his distance, extending an arm to set the food where it belonged rather than bending forward. Having seen such jesting before, Jesse was fairly sure the youngster was keeping his queue out of hand’s reach. Without a word, the other ranch-hand across the table, a Mexican by his looks, put his fork down on his plate, got up, and left. Floyd turned and said, the words flat, “Indulged in a late night again, George?” George just grinned and picked up his fork. Pointedly, Floyd turned back to Bridger. Floyd and Bridger talked cattle while George ate. Using a skill honed for more pleasant, if less respectable, purposes, Jesse covertly studied the young cattle-herder. George no longer seemed rattled, but he also wasn’t crapulous. He was eating too fast for man with

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a sour stomach. He didn’t vary the steady rhythm of his fork moving between plate and mouth until Bridger finished a sentence with “—some wild creeks, according to Mrs. Lane.” “You were in Los Angeles? You saw Mrs. Lane?” The words practically chased each other on the way out of George’s mouth. When he saw the expression of mild surprise that Bridger turned upon him, George caught himself, leaned back, and said, “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a man interested in women’s hats, Mister.” “Wardley is my name,” Bridger said, with a hint of a frown at the address. “And this tall cuss next to me is Jesse. We’re down from the Playa Negra to see to those eastern cattle.” Jesse decided that it was time to speak. “Mrs. Lane was kind enough to converse with us when we asked her about a bandit around the ranch. Any other business would be between her and her husband.” At the sound of Jesse’s voice, George’s upper lip pulled back from his teeth slightly and his eyes narrowed. The expression made what might have been a handsome countenance ugly. “Say now, Jesse—” With a bang, the door to the side porch opened. Sam came in, face flushed. “If you can find the time, George, I need your help to finish packing the nearside wagon.” “I’m having lunch,” George protested. “How about you stop eating lunch and start working before Mr. Lane notices you haven’t been around all morning?” “He wouldn’t say nothing,” George said, and smirked. Sam snatched off his porkpie hat and smacked it across the back of George’s head. “I would. Now, get going before I say it.” To Jesse, at least, it seemed as if Sam yearned to use something more solid than a felt hat on what must be his younger brother. However, the hat was enough. George stood up and followed Sam out of the dining room. “Probably out last night with those gamblers from El Monte again,” Floyd said. His gaze drifted across Jesse briefly before he said, “Those fellows are nothing but uppity loafers and Sunday soldiers. You still might want to watch out for them.” Pulling a battered pocketwatch out, he opened the cover to examine its face and said, “I’m about to be late myself. Excuse me.” He got up and left, leaving Jesse and Bridger alone with the cook and his assistant. “I’m surprised Mr. Lane keeps that one around,” Bridger said. Jesse knew he wasn’t talking about Floyd.

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Jesse looked over at the open kitchen door and nudged Bridger under the table with his foot. Bridger nodded and changed the subject to their afternoon trip out to see the eastern herd. *** When he looked inside the main barn an hour later, Jesse saw Lane walking around a large wagon with the tight, measured movements of man reining back his temper. Upon hearing Jesse’s footsteps he turned, and made an obvious effort to restrain himself. “Mr. Lane,” Jesse said, “Wardley and I are going to ride out toward Greasewood Canyon and check those heads of cattle.” “Will you two be out overnight?” “Yes, sir.” “Go ahead and get supplies from the storeroom. The cook, Ah Ying, will bundle up some trail rations for you. If there’s anything else you need, ask Sam.” “Thank you.” Jesse hesitated, and then said, “We rode through Los Angeles on our way here.” “Did you?” Lane’s head cocked. “That’s no surprise.” “Anyhow, we needed directions.” Lane’s lips twitched upward, but the expression that resulted was slightly sad. “How is my wife? Doing well? I hope she wasn’t too brusque. As clever as she is, she can be—” He caught himself. Jesse said, “Mrs. Lane seemed to be in blooming health, although she only spoke with us briefly.” Lane nodded. His smile had warmed a little. “Her directions to the ranch were very helpful.” “She didn’t send a message with you.” The words weren’t a question. “No.” Lane hoisted both eyebrows. Jesse thought he detected an odd note of pride when the manager said, “She wouldn’t.” “Mrs. Lane did say something about deciding soon.” Jesse shrugged incomprehension.

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“May that day come quickly, trailing luck in its train.” Then, as if half-ashamed of what seemed to be uncharacteristically flowery language, Lane turned away and called out, “Miguel, is that strap-down ready?” There was a clanking noise from the far side of the wagon before a voice said, “Si, finalmente.” “Go on, then. You may already be too late to reach Xabier before nightfall.” He turned back to Jesse. “I believe you’ll also want to be on your way.” Jesse nodded. “Good luck with the eastern cattle.” Lane’s eyes seemed to glint as he said, “Watch out for their horns.”

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VII — A Mystery, Although Compelling, May Not Be All-Consuming

Jesse twitched the reins and eased Carro forward a few steps before flicking his arm to loosen his riata around the cow’s hind legs. The loop of rawhide fell to the ground. At the same time, Bridger snapped his arm in a practiced movement that would loosen his own tie around the cow’s horns, leaning well out of the saddle once he had enough slack to quickly tug away the riata. As Bridger finished, Misteria danced back out of the way. She had dainty footwork. Freed, the cow mooed loudly, rolled her eyes, and suddenly veered away from the two of them to crash off down the slope. “Well, those were some very long horns,” Bridger said, coiling his riata. Jesse chuckled. “Yes, indeed. However, horns or no horns, they seem to be doing well enough.” “No sign of screwworms or Spanish fever,” Bridger agreed. The cow was the third of her herd that they had roped and released. “Do you want to check any more of them?” “We’re losing the light. Shall we make camp instead?” “That sounds like a good idea.” Before they made camp, they rode far enough away from the cattle that they wouldn’t have any nocturnal, bovine visitors. Jesse was glad that he and Bridger had watered the horses back down toward the western mouth of the canyon because tonight’s camp would be dry. At least they would have a fire. After dinner, Jesse got out his rawhide and started to braid. It would quiet his thinking and help him to keep his mind on business. Bridger sat watching him work. Oddly, being observed didn’t feel uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Bridger asked, “Did you find anything out from Mr. Lane?” “He has a sense of humor. He misses his wife.” Jesse’s fingers paused for a moment while he considered. “He probably suspects that we’re tasked with more than inspecting these cows.” “I got a chance to chat with that vaquero who was at lunch with us, Estavan. He was in the barn while I was getting the horses ready.” “That was quick work.” Jesse set down his half-done riata on its wrappings. “Turns out the fellow’s a gossip, and he hates young George. He was fed up over the supply wagon and wanted the chance to say so to a fellow vaquero, at length. After he started, he was easy to keep going. According to him, George is not only rude and lazy, but a practical joker to boot, the kind who just won’t quit.”

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Jesse winced. Too many stunts like hiding iron shot in a ranch-hand’s boots, stopping up chimneys with rags, or smearing pepper sauce onto the outhouse seats could make ranch life a misery. “He does indeed sound like a proper candidate for our ghost rider. What about Mr. Lane?” “I think Estavan’s ready to light a votive candle in front of him. If Estavan’s right, Lane’s about as good a man as he’s reported to be, if somewhat on the gruff side. He’s a fine boss.” “Given that, I do wonder why George is still working on Los Robles.” “That’s the question, isn’t it? I wonder the same about Sam; he’s supposed to spend a lot of time wrapped around a bottle.” “Lane could be too soft to send them both packing,” Jesse said. They looked at each other and shook their heads, rejecting that notion, at the same time. “Not to mention,” Bridger said, “the best bit I kept back for last. George was sniffing around Mrs. Lane before she left for Los Angeles.” “Odd. She must be a decade older than he is and rather plain to boot,” Jesse said. Then he looked at Bridger, who was smiling a touch wickedly, and sighed. “Never mind. Could George have accosted her? No, he still has his hide on his back and his horse in the Los Robles stable, although I don’t know why.” “All this does keep coming around to that same question, doesn’t it?” Bridger’s smile disappeared. “It seems that George has never quite stepped over the line with his chivalric attentions, even if they’re about as refined as his jokes are funny. After she’d told him once to mind his own beeswax, Mrs. Lane pretty much ignored him. But Lane had some sort of big talk with his missus right after the ghost rider first showed up, and she was packed and gone that same afternoon.” Jesse considered for a while before he said, “I don’t know how all of this fits together – the night rider, Sam and George, how Lane manages the ranch, Mrs. Lane running off to make hats in Los Angeles – but I can’t help thinking that it does.” “We need to know more than we do.” “Yes,” Jesse agreed. “Let’s leave matters alone for now. We’ll have a chance to talk to some of the others back at the ranch tomorrow.” By unspoken agreement, they spent the rest of the time before the fire died down working on their braiding and trying to top each other’s stories. Gradually the stories shifted from anecdotes to yarns and from yarns to tall tales. Jesse felt that he did well with a story

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about a Yankee peddler who Jesse claimed was his great-grandfather, three clocks that didn’t work, and a farmer, but Bridger topped him with a tale about the wedge-shaped cows he had tended in the circular barn on the Shaker land where he’d grown up. When they both stopped laughing, Bridger banked the fire while Jesse walked out in the dark to relieve himself. With his hands busy, he considered repeating his foolishness of two nights ago on the trail. However, such a notion somehow seemed like an invitation for the ghost rider to finally return, so he went back to the fire and settled down into his blankets. After last night he was tired, but he didn’t seem to want to sleep. Instead he turned over all that Bridger had said about himself in his mind, lingering here and there to fit the bits of stories together. How such a man could have implied that he was dull, Jesse still did not understand. To Jesse, Bridger was a mystery, a riddle, an appealing enigma in vaquero’s clothing, no matter how straightforward he tried to appear. Jesse lay contemplating Bridger: his simple speech, his gentle smile, the talented hands, the handsome body with its lean, well-shaped hips and pale, long cock— By Jove, Jesse was going to be a fool again. He sat up. “Jesse?” Apparently he hadn’t been the only one awake. They had laid out their bedrolls close to each other to take advantage of the banked fire’s lingering heat. This far inland, the spring nights could get cold. It was the work of a moment to shuffle on his knees to where Bridger now sat up in his blankets. Jesse could see well enough in the moonlight to reach out and find Bridger’s groin. Bridger asked him, “Have you decided to enjoy yourself this time?” For once, his words were not calm. “Why yes, I believe that I have.” *** The first shudder came while Jesse worked Bridger’s undershirt loose from his trousers. Jesse felt the tremor run along the muscles of Bridger’s lower back and paused, considering. Then he moved his hand slowly up under the linen, caressing the smooth skin over Bridger’s spine, feeling the flex and flow as Bridger breathed. That sensation was enough to convince Jesse that he wanted more than just another quick tussle. Bridger had removed his coat, vest, and shirt before lying down to sleep, and his braces dangled loose from his trousers as he sat with Jesse’s hand stroking his back. It was the work of a moment to undo a few buttons on his placket, strip his undershirt off over his head, and toss it aside. Then Jesse had both hands on Bridger’s chest and pushed him back down into the blankets. Jesse didn’t know what else he was going to do before he did it: Bridger tasted of dust and skin as Jesse ran his open mouth across Bridger’s chest,

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trailing his tongue, savoring the flatness and the chafe of hair against his lips. Once more cradled in Jesse’s hand through the layers of cloth, Bridger’s cock was hardening. Jesse pushed himself up and away. In the moonlight, he could still see the shift of Bridger’s eyes. Smiling, Jesse unbuttoned Bridger’s trousers, but this time, instead of lowering his mouth as he undid the buttons of the drawers, he told Bridger, “Stand up.” Without a word, Bridger did so. Jesse yanked the trousers down and worked them off one foot at a time, forcing Bridger to support his weight with a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. Then Jesse reached up to run fingers down the drawers seam that ran between Bridger’s buttocks, which earned him his second shudder. He slowly untied the drawstring bow at the back of the drawers’ waistband. The fly buttons in front he undid much more quickly, and Bridger sighed as his cock rose free at last. In response, Jesse pulled at the drawers, tugging them down. Male nakedness was rare, usually seen only around bathtubs and swimming holes. Even during fornication, a man’s body generally stayed clad. Grateful for the moonlight, Jesse paused to look, running his hands up and down the solidity of Bridger’s slightly bowed legs before he finally stood. When he wrapped his arms around Bridger and halfwrestled him down into the blankets again, Bridger’s breathing was loud enough that Jesse could hear it over his own racing pulse. Bridger’s breathing grew harsher as Jesse unbuttoned his flies, freed himself, and then lowered his weight onto Bridger to push his cock between Bridger’s loosely closed thighs. For a minute or so, the rough friction and hard rubbing of Bridger’s cock against Jesse’s clad belly was enough. Soon, though, Jesse wanted more. He pulled loose, rolled off, reached back over to grip Bridger’s cock, and asked, “Is your rawhide grease near to hand?” He’d packed his own away deep in his saddlebags. The response in his fist answered the other question that he hadn’t asked even before Bridger said, “Yes.” They ended up using Bridger’s saddle. Jesse had pulled off his own shirt and undershirt before he lost patience at the sight of Bridger well forward on hands and knees, his ass raised by the arch of the leather. Jesse got down onto his own knees still wearing his trousers and drawers, with only the long flies open. But he did take the time to rub, and then nuzzle, between Bridger’s buttocks before he used the grease. That wasn’t a chore but a pleasure. By the time Jesse worked his cock into Bridger’s ass, and Bridger grunted beneath him as he coped with the stretching, Jesse had slowed for the sake of his own enjoyment. Jesse savored the strength pushing up beneath him, even as he forced a greasy hand between skin and leather. Bridger didn’t need to start a new and unique set of calluses from this night’s ride. Then all that mattered was fucking the tight heat that Jesse had yearned for since he had first seen Bridger’s gentle smile and well-exercised ass. Like most first rides, their sodomy wasn’t all ease. Once or twice Jesse was sure he had bruised Bridger, and Jesse ended up with some teeth marks on his forearm. When Jesse

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had finished cursing into Bridger’s back, Bridger was still trying to buck up underneath Jesse’s weight, to strop against the leather of the saddle. Jesse had to practically force Bridger over onto his back so that Jesse could use his mouth to finish what his hand and cock had started. When they were done, they both lay sprawled out for a few minutes, still quiet, until Jesse slapped at a mosquito. For some reason, that made Bridger chuckle. Maybe it was the contrast between their forbidden rutting and the mundane assault. Bridger sat up and said, “Well, you didn’t ask, but I do believe you enjoyed yourself.” It was Jesse’s turn to laugh. “I did.” “Now I have to clean my saddle.” The comment was amused, not complaining. “I have a little saddle soap. I’ll get what’s left of the water, too. Then we can also scrub ourselves up enough to put our drawers back on. Otherwise we’ll be eaten alive by morning, not to mention the chance of getting sunburnt if we oversleep.” Bridger snorted at that notion. As he dressed for bed, Jesse wondered why the act of sodomy was so much easier than being a sodomite. It was a mystery, but not one he intended to solve this late at night any more than he could sort out the tangle at Los Robles without some sleep. He settled for pausing in his own dressing long enough to push Bridger’s hands aside and do up the buttons on his undershirt for him. When Jesse was done, Bridger rubbed the back of his hand against Jesse’s cheek in rough caress again, as he had last night. This time Jesse didn’t start. Instead, relaxed amidst his blankets a few minutes later, Jesse came to a decision. “Bridger,” Jesse said into the dark. “What?” “I think we should talk with Lane again. I think we should tell him the truth.” “You’re the boss on this expedition, Jesse.” As he lay waiting for sleep, Jesse tried to decide if the words had been amused or contented. Both, he decided at last.

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VIII — You May Lead a Man Towards Aiming, but You Cannot Make Him Hit

If there was one lesson Jesse had been grateful to learn during the late rebellion, it was the difficulty of actually hitting a man with a bullet. He’d never expected to feel that particular gratitude again. He’d been wrong. He and Bridger paused at a stream on their way out of Greasewood Canyon to water the horses when they heard the first bullet. The hiss of its passage wasn’t loud, but the splatcrack of a bullet hitting rock together with the echoing sound of the shot was unmistakable. Jesse was up on his saddle and driving Carro back into the oaks before he could wonder who was firing a rifle. If he’d had the time, and remained a praying man, he would have given thanks for the remnant of a soldier’s perception. That training told him Bridger rode close behind, even as more bullets hit wood, stone, and water. The oaks ran upslope and ended in a bank of thick chaparral. Jesse reined Carro to a halt and dropped out of his saddle as quietly as he could, unholstering his carbine to bring it with him. Carro would have to manage on his own; Jesse couldn’t ride him into the stiff and interlaced shrubs. The oaks around them would provide some cover, but Jesse still moved quickly away from his horse. Carro was just too large a target to stay anywhere near. Instead, squatting low, he half-ran and half-scuttled up to some boulders close by the brush line. Bridger was right behind him. They both paused, holding their breaths. After a few seconds, Jesse could hear again over the pounding of his pulse. There was another ricochet, closer to the horses, but not to them. Looking back downhill, he could see that Misteria was slowly edging through the trees away from all the noise. Carro, on the other hand, had dropped his head and was eating a clump of bunchgrass. Jesse heard another shot and strike, seemingly no nearer to the boulders. He looked over at Bridger, who had his revolver out and a distant look upon his face, probably from concentrating on listening. Then it was quiet. Even the birds had stilled at the sound of shots. Briefly, the only noise was of Carro cropping more grass. Finally, faintly, Jesse thought he heard the sounds of a man moving somewhere out across the canyon. Bridger suddenly mimed actions that Jesse realized, after a few seconds of confusion, were those of a man crawling low. He nodded, wishing that he had the chaparral experience he would have needed to shake his head in refusal. As Jesse had anticipated, after his nod of approval Bridger holstered his gun, crouched down, and walked low to the edge of the thick brush. Then, with the speed possible only to someone who’d done the deed before, Bridger crawled up the slope beneath the canopy of the chaparral. The trunks and rocks would tear at his clothing, but if Bridger stayed down he could avoid the impassable tangle of the thorny branches and arrive at the top of the ridge. The only serious danger would be rattlers. Jesse winced at the memory.

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Such worries were self-indulgent. Easing into an angle between two of the boulders, Jesse rested his carbine on the rock. From here he could fire across the slope if their attacker tried the insanity of approaching the brush. No experienced man would bother with such an assault, but no experienced man would try shooting them through the foliage that grew around a spring. Jesse himself would have waited until his targets were riding away from the canyon mouth onto the plains. Better still, he would have shot their horses from cover at point-blank range and then picked off the riders at his leisure. The passing minutes seemed to slow. Jesse had all the time in the world to think old, sore, soldierly thoughts as he listened to Bridger working his way up the hill and heard — Yes, that was the sound of a horse galloping away. Jesse stayed still, waiting with carbine held steady for what felt like an eternity until Bridger returned. At last, with a rustle of branches shifted from below, Bridger reemerged from the brush. But Bridger’s instincts were good: he kept low until he was back at Jesse’s side. There could have been another assailant besides the one who had just ridden off, after all. Bridger’s words were quiet. “One man. But I reached the ridgeline too late to get a good look. All I could see was a tall figure wearing a planter’s hat.” They looked at each other, both considering. The first birds resumed chirping. Misteria whickered at something known only to herself, and the steady sounds of Carro cropping grass continued. At last Jesse said, “I want to be fair. This pleases me too much. Did you see anyone else around Los Robles who wore a planter’s?” “No,” Bridger said, “but someone might be playing the deceiver.” “I don’t think anyone realizes that I’ve seen George with his hat on, since that was at night.” “Sometimes the obvious answer is the right answer. We’ll find out more back at the house.” “Yes.” Bridger took a deep breath and let it out. “We do have one more problem.” Jesse settled for raising his brows in inquiry. “As you probably understand better than me, anyone with any sense scouts around before an ambush. We don’t know how long this shooter – might as well call him George – was watching us. It could have been since last night. He might have seen us while we were busy.” Bridger tilted the brim of his own hat back with one finger. “That would be trouble.” As usual, both his expression and his words were calm.

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To his surprise, Jesse realized that he felt nothing but anger at the prospect of having been watched while in intimate embrace. “I don’t care what that useless vermin has to say. In any case, the two of us together can face George down, especially given what he’s most likely been up to today.” Bridger smiled. “I knew you weren’t fearful.” “Excuse me?” “About being a sodomite. I didn’t think you were afraid. Maybe it’s your pilgrim fathers peering over your shoulder that make you so uneasy about your tendencies.” “The Putnams were Puritans, not pilgrims, and we are presently Unitarians,” Jesse retorted. Then he added, exasperated with himself, “That is neither here nor there, though. We need to return to the house, and quickly.” “Yes we do.” “He might try setting another ambush just outside of the canyon. I would.” Bridger smiled, but for once his face wasn’t serene. It was mean. “You were a cavalryman. I don’t think our bushwhacker was.” “We’ll still be careful.” Jesse wondered if he looked as bleak as he felt. “Yes, sir.” There was no irony in Bridger’s address. Nor did Jesse feel the need to cavil at Bridger’s “sir.” Jesse was using skills that he’d hoped never to use again, and making the kinds of decisions that he hated. He’d use the respect as balm. This bushwhacker was building up one hell of a bill. Jesse dearly hoped that it would be George who paid. *** When they rode up to the main house, it was buzzing like a beehive that had been kicked over. A pair of ranch-hands was riding out; others were closing up the outbuildings. Even the dogs had gotten up off the patio bricks to bark as Jesse and Bridger rode up to the barn. The stable hand, a quiet lad who seemed to have a lot of Indian blood, didn’t pester them with questions, but his attitude was wary. Lane made up for the youth’s caution, though, when he strode into the barn. “You two come with me,” he said, and turned his back to walk away. Jesse and Bridger looked at each other. Bridger shrugged, and they followed.

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They trailed him through the patio entrance to the main house and down a long corridor into what was obviously his office. The interior was neat and new, papered with flowerdiamond print, unadorned except for a handful of ships in bottles displayed atop the low bookcases full of ledgers and books about ranching and the west. Jesse blinked at the notion of Lane sitting still long enough to piece together the delicate riggings and masts. Lane pulled the armchair away from his desk, and sat. He didn’t invite them to sit. However, he didn’t tell them to take their hats off, either. He only looked up and asked, “Well?” Jesse spoke. “Someone shot at us up in Greasewood Canyon. He didn’t know what he was doing. As you can see, he missed.” “Whoever it was wore a planter’s hat, and I think he was tall,” Bridger added. “One of my shepherds rode in to report all the shooting.” Lane looked at both of them, and then back at Jesse. “Are you the one actually in charge?” “Yes.” For a long moment Lane considered, eyes narrowed. Then he said, voice flat, “Please sit down, gentlemen.” Jesse moved a birch side chair away from its place against the wall and did so. He noticed that Bridger took out a handkerchief and spread it over the embroidered seat cushion before he sat in another of the side chairs. Crawling under chaparral had done nothing for the cleanliness of Bridger’s trousers. “May I take it that you were expecting the Giffords would send more investigators?” Jesse asked. Lane nodded, obviously impatient, but willing to answer questions as well as ask them. “Everyone on this ranch was expecting more nosing around.” He finished his turn by saying, “What you’ve just told me implies that George ambushed you.” “Such facts as we’ve collected seem to point that way, yes.” “George came riding in here about a half-hour before you did. After he’d heard all of old Xabier’s hooting and hollering, he changed steeds and rode out again, lashing his horse like he was trying to win the Epsom Derby.” There was a hint of a growl to the words as he added, “On Sam’s horse. Toward Los Angeles.” “Toward Mrs. Lane?” Bridger asked, voice very mild. “Likely enough, the amorous son of a bitch. I thought he was either scared to fight, or off to warn whichever lowdown friend of his was poaching on this property. But if George

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thinks that he has anything to bargain with that will make me stand at ease while he shoots at strangers and bothers my wife, he can just think again.” Jesse asked, “He’s been bargaining with you before this? Has he been asking for money from the ranch, or accepting commissions to assure that you only deal with certain merchants at certain times?” Lane stared at Jesse for a few seconds. Then he let out a crack of laughter. “Hell, no. I use the merchants who will still deal with me after they learn that I was a Union officer. And I’ve been channeling any extra money we earn into developing this ranch: the land needs more to prosper than the Giffords would most likely give it. All George has been getting from me is continued employment for him and his brother, in exchange for not spreading around what Sam told him about my war service. And I was about done with that poor bargain. This ghost nonsense is hurting the ranch more than my war record ever could.” Jesse studied Lane. Then he asked, “Exactly what units did you officer?” “I had moved north well before Fort Sumner, so I started with the Connecticut Volunteers. By the end of the war, I was an officer of the USCT.” With a sour smile, he added what Jesse already knew. “United States Colored Troops, that is.” “A lot of the locals really would not like your having commanded armed Negros, would they? No wonder George thought that he could bargain.” Jesse fell silent for a moment. Something was still nagging at him, but— Bridger had been studying Lane, too. “Do you think that George will use your record to enlist his friends from El Monte against you now?” “Good luck to them in a fair fight. The last fellow who tried to blackwhip me for being a Union veteran got a dram of his own tincture.” “You don’t worry about bushwhacking or banditry?” Bridger frowned. “From what little we’ve heard, they sound impulsive.” “They surely might try something around Los Robles.” Lane’s nostrils flared very slightly, and he leaned forward as he said, “That’s why I’ll be staying here with the hands while you two ride out in pursuit of George. There’s not much chance of an ambush between here and Los Angeles, after all, once you’re off the ranch.” Jesse looked at Bridger; Bridger looked at Jesse. Jesse wondered if his own astonishment showed when he turned back to Lane and asked, “You don’t want us to stay here while you ride after George?” “If I see him now, I’ll kill him. I am fit to be tied.” The words were flat and definite. Then, with a bit more life in his voice, Lane added, “Not to mention, as you yourselves

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told me, my wife sent no message. When she wishes to see me again, she’ll let me know.” No matter how fraternal the match might have been, Jesse had been married. Sometimes, when it came to resolving an argument with his wife, a man just had to swallow his pride and plead his case. “This hardly seems like the time—” Lane was darkly amused. “Mr. Whatever-your-real-name-is, you don’t know Mrs. Lane. We recently had a talk, and she still has a decision to make. Believe you me, I know better than to interrupt her before she makes it.” He got up, obviously to indicate that the interview was over. Then he paused. “Gentlemen, may I ask you for one favor?” ‘For one favor?’ Jesse thought, but he only said, “If you will.” “Speak to Sam. I want him off this ranch, but if I see him right now, I’ll kill him, too. He doesn’t deserve that.” With a snort like a bull, he amended, “He doesn’t quite deserve that.” “We’ll make the conversation quick,” Bridger said. Jesse could only silently agree. Unlike Lane, he could hardly stay calm at the idea of a decent woman facing a wild youth with romance on his mind and a gun at his hip. There was still a great deal about what was happening on Los Robles that Jesse felt he did not understand.

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IX — All Men Are Not Alike in the Dark

On the way to the west wing, they ran into Floyd talking to the cook’s young assistant, who was now cradling a shotgun. Bridger asked, “Where’s Sam?” Floyd looked sour. “In the shearing barn. Drinking.” They left him telling the youngster, “See if you can get the cleaver away from him and have him use that old blunderbuss of his instead.” Even in the cool of morning, the shearing barn smelled strongly of hide and lanolin. A few extra fleeces were stacked in one corner, and that was where Sam was sprawled out with his eyes closed and his lips moving. He must have worked fast or started early to empty as much of the bottle of rye clutched in his hand. Jesse knew they didn’t have a great deal of time. He was still a little surprised when Bridger pulled out his revolver, walked quietly up to Sam, and gently pressed the barrel against the man’s forehead for a moment. At the cold touch, Sam opened his eyes and seemed to try to focus. At least, when he finally realized what was going on, he had the good sense to keep still. Bridger stepped back, but kept the revolver aimed. “I won’t insult you by asking where your brother went. You’d need more than a gun pointed at you to answer that question. But you better start talking, Sam.” As Bridger spoke, Jesse shifted slightly so that he could watch the entrance to the barn. It would be a pity if one of the other ranch-hands wandered in and mistook the situation. Bridger added, “I’d wager you told him that we were more agents from San Francisco. However, I don’t understand why he panicked and tried to kill us.” “Kill?” Sam started at the sound of his own question, and then rushed on with, “He was just trying to scare you. He missed, didn’t he?” That possibility had simply never occurred to Jesse. After four years of war, he took ricochets too seriously to have considered that someone might fire all those bullets only as a ploy. He found himself asking “What in Hades—” and fell silent. Sam’s eyes were watery as he stared up at Jesse. “He thought you’d believe that he was some bandit you were talking about, and think that bandit was the night rider.” Jesse shook his head in amazement. Sam seemed to take the shake for disagreement, and said, “He thought you’d be scared off. He thought I’d swear that he was here on the ranch. He thought -- I don’t know what he thought.” Taking another swig, he said, “I guess he didn’t think that anyone

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might see him. I guess he just about fainted when he looked back and someone was up on that ridge behind him. All of Xabier’s hollering was only the last straw.” In a lower voice, Sam told the bottle, “Boy never was very smart.” The bottle seemingly had no reply to this. Jesse asked, “George is chasing off towards Los Angeles so he can ask Mrs. Lane to flee with him, isn’t he?” Sam’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand him, not one bit. She’s nothing to look at.” “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jesse said. “You’d better worry instead about what will happen when he finds Mrs. Lane. Why didn’t he just ambush Mr. Lane if he wanted the man’s wife so badly?” “He’s not a killer.” Perhaps seeing their expressions, Sam added weakly, “He figured that, if he had some time, he could talk her around. Besides, you don’t know Mrs. Lane. If George had killed Lane, sooner or later she would have found out. Then, sooner or later, she would have got George. Cut his throat while he was asleep, maybe.” “Even though she and Mr. Lane have been quarreling?” Bridger sounded curious, not surprised. “Lane was the one who lifted her and her Ma out of poverty. She’s real big on paying her debts, and she’s a hellion. Maybe that’s why George likes her.” Taken aback, Jesse didn’t say anything, and Sam continued, voice shaking, “I should have kept quiet about meeting Lane and his niggers in Virginia during the war. But I’d had a few drinks, and George wouldn’t leave me be.” “So then he thought he was on the driver’s bench around here?” Jesse clenched a fist. “Don’t bother to answer that.” Sam didn’t bother. He was too busy being aggrieved. “Lane always was wary around me, holding me off for no good reason. Even when I first came down here from the Lone Tree, he wouldn’t talk about anything back home. I don’t care if he was an orphan. That’s no excuse to shun me. No wonder I started drinking again. After that, I needed something to keep him from firing me. Fair’s fair.” As if he’d just remembered his brother, he amended his penultimate sentence. “Firing me and George.” Jesse made sure Sam was looking him in the eye before he spoke again. He wanted Sam to see he was serious, even through the liquor. “If I was you, I’d be off this ranch before Lane stops being so busy and starts weighing what a burden you are against the slight difficulty of his war record. After he does that, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about his firing you any more. Killing you, though—” ***

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They left Sam muttering to himself and stumbling around in the shearing barn. Jesse hoped the man’s wanderings were the first, vague preparations for departing and not a search for another bottle. He wouldn’t have wagered money in either direction. As they rode off, Jesse said, “I wonder if he’ll actually have the stomach to try getting his own back by spreading the news about Lane’s regiment.” “Most likely he’ll just slink away. After all, even when he had the chance, he never tried for anything but the employment he didn’t really deserve. Sam doesn’t seem like one for confrontations.” “Unlike his brother.” Bridger said, “George probably rode around wearing a pillow case as a joke, and to remind Lane of who was in the catbird seat. I don’t know why he kept going after that, especially with the Giffords’ inspectors coming and going.” To Jesse, the answer seemed obvious. “Because Mrs. Lane went away from her husband right after that first ride. George may not have known why that happened, but he was just smart enough to note the timing. If playing Kluxer could move Mrs. Lane to Los Angeles and out from under Lane’s watchful eyes, play Kluxer he would. It seemed to work until I came along, talking about bandits and using words that might imply Mrs. Lane and her husband were speaking again.” “I do think you’re right,” Bridger said. “However, all this leads to another loose end. Even on short acquaintance, Lane strikes me as not being an easy man to rattle.” Jesse shook his head. “But one round of George’s idiotic masquerade spurred Lane into telling his wife something that sent her right back to her mother. She’s supposed to be a loyal woman, too. I wonder what in Hades could be on Lane’s conscience. The reports paint him as a model of probity.” “You don’t have any notions?” Bridger asked, facing forward. He was frowning thoughtfully. “At first, I thought perhaps Lane was—” Jesse hesitated. Bridger turned to him, and Jesse waved from Bridger toward himself and back again. “— like you and me. But there’s a certain look in his eyes when he talks about his wife.” Bridger rode for a while without speaking. Then he said, “Well, I do have another guess.” Jesse waited. Finally he asked, “Which is?”

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“That he’s passing.” The words were both calm and measured, but Bridger was still looking at the road rather than Jesse. “I believe Lane is actually a Negro: probably a quadroon or octoroon, given his appearance.” There might be other explanations, but Jesse couldn’t think of them right now. His mind pieced the puzzle together: Lane’s moving north, the probity of his character contrasted with his reluctance to speak of his background, his volunteering to fight and then to lead colored troops, the secret that had sent his wife away. His wife. Jesse realized that his mouth was open and closed it. Then he said, “Lane must be—” The sentence was going nowhere good. He tried again. “The man married.” He couldn’t bring himself to add ‘a white woman.’ “So did you.” Bridger’s words weren’t condemning, but they still blighted the conversation for a good distance. They had been alternately walking, trotting, and galloping the horses, and Jesse used a stretch of trotting to rake over his own reactions with the relentlessness of a Boston-bred conscience. Before he could bring himself to speak, though, Bridger spoke first. “You seem taken aback.” There was no criticism in Bridger’s words. “I am, but I shouldn’t be. We campaigned with colored regiments during the war. Having met some of their Sergeants, not to mention one or two of my parents’ dinner guests—” Jesse trailed off and shook his head. “Now I feel ignorant.” “No need.” Bridger shrugged. “A man sees what he expects to see, accepts what he’s primed to accept.” “You saw otherwise. You’re not ranting.” “I grew up with Negro brethren, even a Negro elder, among the Shakers. It was an education that most white men didn’t get, abolitionist or not. There’s a great difference between meeting someone at a dinner and living with them as your intimate or your superior.” Bridger’s gaze was level. “Besides, we two understand something about living a lie, and why a man might choose to do so in spite of his better nature. Our sort doesn’t have the corner on such deceptions.” The list of reasons for Lane to hide his race would be long. For one, the Giffords were radical Republicans, but would even they employ a Negro as a ranch manager? Jesse knew that his Uncle’s and Aunt’s reasoning would probably invoke the problems that a Negro could expect with almost every white he encountered in the course of business. Their answer would still be no.

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And Lane was in love with his wife. Jesse forced his mind back toward what it could cope with. He shook his head. “Well, at least you learned more from hiding than how to abrade your conscience.” “I learned young,” Bridger said. Glancing sideways, Jesse realized Bridger was smiling in the way that had first attracted Jesse’s attention back in San Francisco. “However, you learn fast. What do you intend to do about the Lanes, Mr. Putnam?” In the end, the choice was obvious. “Colonel Putnam intends to ride like the cavalryman he was toward Los Angeles and do there whatever he needs to do in order to deal with an impulsive fool.” Without consulting his judgment, his hand touched the butt of his revolver. Realizing how premature that gesture was, he kicked Carro back into a gallop instead.

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X — A Woman’s Work is Never Done

When they reached the street in front of Mrs. Lane’s house, Sam’s horse was already there, unhitched and wandering about, trampling the flowers in the front garden. There, too, were three of what Jesse took to be the boys from El Monte: two were weather-worn fellows in sack suits, one large, one small, and the third was a hefty man dressed in a frockcoat over unfortunate checked trousers. Jesse was surprised to recognize the last man present. The Irishman from the bar, Flannigan, was loudly remonstrating with the man in a frockcoat. “You can’t bother decent women like this, Mr. Mills. It’ll give the town a bad name.” “Nonsense, Flannigan. Our friend George merely wishes to warn Mrs. Lane about some unfortunate events occurring out on Los Robles.” Deciding to try for an inconspicuous entrance while the bickering was still in progress, Jesse swung down out of his saddle and made for the front walk. The weight of his reins would keep Carro in place, even in the face of floral temptation. Jesse had made it almost past the quarrelling cluster when his luck ran out. “Hellfire, it’s that goddamned Yankee bluebelly. Get him!” the small fellow shouted. So much for discretion: he must have recognized Jesse from the saloon bar. Thank heavens the fellow was long-winded. Before the words were entirely done, Jesse had turned and hit the larger man in the gut, hard, and then chopped him across the throat. Most fights were either finished in under half a minute or dragged on for painful eons. Since Jesse had the advantage of surprise, this fight started as the former variety. Now, though, the small man was backing away from Jesse, groping for a gun that wasn’t there. Flannigan and Mills turned away from their argument to see what was going on just as the small fellow dodged Jesse’s lunge and bolted into the garden. He grabbed for Sam’s horse or, more likely, for the rifle holstered on the horse’s saddle. But Sam’s horse was no Carro. Spooked by all the noise and the stranger running at him, the gelding danced away, his hooves putting paid to the jasmine bushes planted to one side of the front walk. The small fellow was trying for another grab when a voice interrupted him. “Don’t. I’ll shoot a hole in your head that the sun will shine through.” That was Bridger, his words pitched to carry. Bridger was off of Misteria, standing in a peculiar stance with his legs braced wide and his revolver held out in front of him with both hands. Somehow Jesse had no doubt that Bridger would do what he said. The small fellow seemed to think the same thing. He stopped, and then slowly stretched his hands out far from his sides. Flannigan and Mills also held still. Almost anywhere, a conflict of this magnitude would attract a crowd. It was certainly true in Los Angeles, even given the short time that the fighting had lasted. Perhaps the

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spectators had been alerted by the shouting before the actual brawl began. Several of the neighbors gathered, even though they were standing well back. At Bridger’s words, an aproned woman grabbed two small children by the upper arms and hustled them away, but the rest of the spectators only gasped and commented. Thus, there was quite an audience when a female voice inside the house screamed and then kept screaming. It was a race to the front hall that Jesse and Bridger won, since the small fellow, the other starter with a good position, used his opportunity to vault the bushes and disappear down a cross street. But most of the crowd was hot on their heels. Inside, a well-dressed elderly lady was working up to a case of the vapors. Nothing else seemed to be obviously wrong, and the woman – Jesse supposed that she must be Mrs. Lane’s mother – was not coherent. But a quick look revealed that the door to the front room was open. Jesse drew his own revolver, and he and Bridger charged through the doorway. When they entered, Mrs. Lane was sitting in her rocker with her apron twisted around her hands. Her hair was coming down on one side. Something had stained the apron, and a large, red mark marred her left cheek. She was staring at the daguerreotypes hung on the wall, and looked up only when Jesse and Bridger stood before her, Jesse breathing from the fight and Bridger still holding his revolver in that odd, two-handed grip, but pointed towards the ceiling now. Jesse let Bridger speak. “Mrs. Lane?” “Yes?” She looked up and swallowed. Then her expression firmed. “Is Mother all right?” Bridger took a few steps back and glanced out through the open door. “There’s a lady with smelling salts.” He stepped forward again, just in time for Flannigan and Mills to crowd into the room, followed by some of the neighbors. “Oh, good,” Mrs. Lane said. “She doesn’t deal well with surprises.” “We were wondering if George persuaded you—” Mills said as he entered. He stopped. George wouldn’t be persuading anyone of anything. He was dead on the floor. There was blood on the rag rug and even more blood on George’s body, especially around where the hatpin stuck out of the hollow of his throat. Mrs. Lane ignored all of that. Standing, she said, “He certainly didn’t persuade me, the reptile.” Bridger opened his mouth, but Jesse spoke first, interrupting him. No matter what Mrs. Lane’s principles might be, there was such a thing as too much honesty, and Los Angeles had an active and fickle taste for vigilante justice. Her story had to be the right story. “You did what you had to, Mrs. Lane. When a man tries to assault a virtuous matron, he must be stopped.”

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Mrs. Lane’s chin rose, and her hazel eyes blinked for a moment in confusion. Then her intelligence came to her rescue. “Perhaps the sun turned his brains. He was talking like a lunatic, and then he seized me. He wanted to—” Encouraged in her embroidery of the details by Jesse’s tiny nod, she added “—force me.” The words came out sounding weak, but that was all the better for Mrs. Lane’s story. With cries of concern, two of the neighbor women surged forward and pulled her from the room, already clucking with sympathy and overflowing with platitudes. The men joined Jesse and Bridger in examining the corpse on the floor. “That harpy’s a murderer,” Mills said, voice heated. “Don’t be a fool, man,” Flannigan said. “You saw the state of her. And, sure, she’s only a woman, after all. Just thank God that she was lucky with her doodad. This George fellow got what was coming to him.” “No wonder Mrs. Lane didn’t want to stay down at Los Robles,” one of the neighbors said. “And here I thought—” Without finishing his conjectures, he shook his head. “If this doesn’t beat all. We’ll have to get a few of the fellows together to sit a coroner’s jury this evening.” “Trust a woman not to drag him out when she’s done,” another commented. Most of the men laughed. The first neighbor said, “Now, don’t be harsh, man. The poor little lady’s had a rough time of it.” Flannigan shrugged. “I’m thinking we’d better get him over to Hurley’s and into a box. It’s terribly warm for March.” He looked up at Jesse and Bridger. “Here, now, give us a hand.” Jesse had spent some hard time dealing with dead bodies down through the years. Given the circumstances, this wasn’t bad at all. *** They had to brave a next-door matron when they visited Mrs. Lane in her parlor later that afternoon. When they entered, she was reclining on the sofa with a bottle of smelling salts on her lap that she ignored. However, she roused herself to firmly shepherd her protesting chaperone out and gently close the door. “I do think Essie Clegg should know by now that I can take care of myself,” she said, before sitting down, spine straight, on the sofa. “We can’t argue with that, ma’am,” Bridger said.

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Jesse turned a chuckle into a cough, and then asked, “Are you in sufficient health to speak with us, Mrs. Lane?” “I’m revolted, not incapacitated, Mr.—?” “Colonel Putnam, ma’am. I’m Ada Gifford’s nephew.” “Really. Have you and the Giffords finally learned that nothing is wrong at Los Robles?” “In a manner of speaking.” She looked at Jesse and then at Bridger for a long few seconds before she said, “Please sit down, gentlemen.” They did, on two spindly oak chairs obviously intended for ladies interested in delightful hats, not men interested in deadly hatpins. Then Mrs. Lane asked, “What, exactly did you mean, Colonel?” By the time that Jesse had finished his account of what he and Bridger had discovered at Los Robles – sans their more personal revelations – her face had gone from wan to faintly smiling. “I will admit,” she said, “that I am relieved to see the last of both Sam and George.” There was the briefest of pauses before she got the second name out, but her features stayed calm. “You picked a good place to use that hatpin, ma’am,” Bridger said. Her reply was almost prim. “Mr. Lane taught me. He, too, thinks that respectable matrons should be able to take care of themselves.” Then she frowned. “I believe that now, given his background, I comprehend why he was so concerned.” Her disconcertingly sharp gaze was on Jesse and Bridger, gauging their reactions. Bridger only returned his usual smile. Jesse, for his part, raised his eyebrows in obviously exaggerated incomprehension. She smiled at them both dryly. “We’ll be riding back to Los Robles to go over a few details with Mr. Lane before we leave,” Bridger said. “Would you like us to bring any messages back to him, ma’am?” “Yes.” Her hands stayed still on her apron. “You may inform my husband that I have grown altogether weary of Los Angeles, and will be returning to the ranch on Tuesday.” She rose to her feet, and they did, too. “And now, if you will see yourselves out, gentlemen? I must see to my mother. Today’s fuss has worn her out.” When they’d cleared the town’s limits, Jesse told Bridger, “Now I know how Fortinbras must feel at the end of Hamlet, marching into Denmark as a conqueror, only to find that the story’s been acted out before he got there.”

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“We’re all the heroes of our own tales,” Bridger said. “Speaking of which, I seem to remember that, when you were discussing your gold rush days, you spoke of losing most of your ‘first poke’. First implies a second.” “You have a good memory, Colonel Putnam.” “So my Aunt Ada tells me. I’ll take your reply as an assent. In any case, I have a small business proposal to put to you which may have some effect on the report that we give to the Giffords.” “Well,” Bridger said meditatively, “when we ride out tomorrow, you can tell me all about your notion.” “I’m sure the eastern cattle can wait a few extra hours,” Jesse agreed.

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XI — In Which All’s Well That Ends Well, Especially by a Wharf

“Are you certain that you wish me to be the one to speak with Aunt Ada?” Jesse asked. They were waiting in the morning parlor on Rincon Hill again, but on this day the sunlight had shifted away from the windows. In front of them were plates with crumbs and cups emptied of tea. Ada had been delayed by a visit from one of her bankers. “Jesse, you know that it makes sense for you to talk to her.” Bridger looked uncomfortable for perhaps the third time since they had met. It might have been due to the brand new formal collar, but Jesse would bet that Bridger’s discomfort was due to the discussion ahead. Bridger really did hate to push his own interests forwards. Before Jesse could do more than shake his head at this quirk, the door opened and Ada came in. Today her silk morning dress was blue, and the scent wafting around her reminded Jesse of lilacs. They rose to their feet, and Ada settled onto her chaise lounge like thistledown. Her camouflage, as always, was almost perfect. After five minutes of polite chat about nothing in particular, Ada was ready for business. “I am distressed that Hiram and I didn’t consider the effect of Mr. Lane’s – Captain Lane’s? – war record when we asked him to manage the Los Robles.” “Captain Lane is the correct address,” Jesse said. “To be fair, he himself understood the fiscal hazards that would result if it came out that he commanded Negro troops.” “Indeed.” Ada said with mild approval. “I am also displeased by this infectious nonsense of the Ku Klux Klan. I shall certainly write to your eldest brother in Washington about them.” Jesse saw from the corner of his eye that Bridger was grinning at him in open amusement. He cleared his throat. “Aunt Ada, I believe I may have a solution to the business difficulties involved.” “Ah?” she asked, and folded one hand over another, meaning that Jesse had about two minutes to summarize his proposition. “Since Mr. Lane’s history would not present such a difficulty – in fact, would be a positive advantage – in much of the northern part of the state, perhaps he would consent to take over the management of my San Rafael acreage.” “But my dear, you have informed your uncle and me in no uncertain terms that you do not like sheep.” Jesse told himself not to break pace. “According to Mr. Bridger, his own manager, Mr. Williams, is quite ambitious and interested in sheep. Los Robles is somewhat larger than

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the Playa Negra, and is certainly more likely to be crossed by a spur line of some railroad in the foreseeable future.” He didn’t have to add ‘which is why you bought that land.” “And you would replace Mr. Williams, I assume, in a triangle trade?” Jesse didn’t wince. Ada was just probing. At least, he assumed that Ada was just probing. He continued, “Over the last few years, I have developed some ideas about how agriculture should proceed in California, ideas to which Mr. Bridger subscribes. Since testing my notions would be a risk, we would be willing to purchase a controlling interest in the Playa and its herds: perhaps two-thirds?” Ada tilted her head. “Why, Mr. Bridger. You have capital.” The words were almost flirtatious. Bridger nodded. “Yes, ma’am, a little, here in San Francisco. I just didn’t know what to do with it. Colonel Putnam was kind enough to suggest that I put my money where my skills are.” “Well.” Ada reached for her fan, opened it, and waved it gently as she spoke. “You gentlemen have certainly given us something to think about. Although I’m surprised that you are willing to take on a partner, Jesse.” Sometimes the only way to survive sniping fire was to ignore it while deploying forward. Ada could be much the same. “We’d need to build a wharf.” “We can discuss your investment plans over luncheon.” With a snap of her wrist, Ada shut her fan. “As for Mr. Williams and Captain Lane, your proposals there seem sound. Mr. Williams can explore the possibilities of sheep, and Captain Lane can supervise the San Rafael acres.” She nodded, satisfied. “From your written report, I understand that the Captain is quite fluent in Spanish and has made many useful improvements on the Los Robles that indicate an ability to work without supervision. Perhaps, after a few more years, he might be interested in managing some of our developing interests in Chile?” Jesse made himself look politely interested. Bridger only smiled. “But I must not ramble. Your uncle will shortly be home for his luncheon.” Ada rose to her feet and they both rose with her. Offering her his arm, Jesse escorted Ada to the dining room. Whew, Jesse thought. They would certainly earn their free lunch today. ***

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“Two months until I arrive at the Playa, Mr. Bridger,” Jesse said, and worked Bridger’s cock a little harder. “I’m just glad you have a good lead hand to take over until the Lanes arrive,” Bridger said, his voice rough. “You’ll need to appoint a lead hand of your own. I don’t know enough about horses to manage the day-to-day operations on the Playa after Williams leaves. The wharf will be my initial responsibility, along with the rest of the expansion.” “Oh,” Bridger said, or maybe it was “Ah.” Too loud in either case: the Lick Hotel was particular about its reputation. “Shh,” Jesse said. In support of his command, he leaned forward and kissed Bridger. He hadn’t kissed anyone like this since his wife died. No, not even back then had he kissed anyone like this. Bridger’s lips were supple and his mouth was warm, but his new mustache scratched. Jesse worked Bridger’s lips apart and proceeded to devastate the unfamiliar terrain. Dimly, he was aware that he’d released Bridger’s cock, and that they were now lying back on the bed together, working against each other, trying to devour each other. Jesse pulled his head back and gasped. He looked down. Bridger’s lips were swollen. His eyes were bright, and there was nothing at all gentle about his smile. He worked his hips underneath Jesse’s, and there was nothing gentle about that, either. Jesse squeezed Bridger’s legs between his own, and ground down hard. “Jesse,” Bridger said, and Jesse loved the way he hissed out the sibilants. Jesse bit at Bridger’s neck, at his ear, at his mouth, first gently and then more roughly. Bridger pounded on his shoulders and back, yanking at his clothing, shoving a hand under Jesse’s trousers and drawers to grope at his ass. They’d both dropped the reins. Who would have thought this loss of control, this tearing and mauling at each other’s bodies, would be the result of a growing friendship? Not Jesse. He couldn’t think. His cock was so very engorged. So was Bridger’s, and it felt wonderful against Jesse’s. Bridger made strangled, guttural noises through pressedtogether lips, and then his mouth opened to gasp; Jesse closed the lips again with his own and felt Bridger’s cock spending, the warmth of spunk against his own cock and clothing, the huff of breath as Bridger was forced to breath through his nose. How good it was when Bridger writhed beneath him as he finished. How good it was afterward as Bridger sprawled in lascivious relaxation while Jesse grunted and thrust against him. How good it was to spend against Bridger with the vaquero’s arms wrapped around him, completing the ruination of both their evening suits. “We’re not eating in the dining room tonight,” Jesse said afterward, as they lay holding each other loosely, as if they didn’t believe that they could actually embrace.

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“Too bad. I wanted to try that antelope steak,” Bridger said. Jesse smacked him. “You wouldn’t like the company anyhow.” They laughed. Maybe this would never work, the ranch would go bankrupt, and they’d end up snarling at each other like two yellow dogs tied together by their tails. Or maybe they’d be whitehaired land barons, straddling silver-studded saddles as they rode around their rich acres with mysterious smiles on their faces. Jesse didn’t know. He didn’t need to know because he already had what he wanted the most. “The lies,” he said to Bridger. “What’s that, Jesse?” Bridger’s eyelids snapped open. “That’s what I learned on this quest of ours. It’s the lies that I hate about being a sodomite.” Awkwardly, now that they weren’t in the midst of fornicating, Jesse leaned over for a kiss. The lips against his own smiled, and Jesse pulled back to say, “I don’t always have to lie, though, not all the time.” “Like I said, you’re a fast learner.” Jesse nudged a leg against Bridger and grinned. “Not as fast as I’d prefer. But at least I’ve learned about one time when I don’t need a mask: when I’m riding with you.” And for that, Jesse could only be truly grateful.

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Hung Up By Cat Kane He’d arrived in town just shy of a thunderstorm. Even when he pulled his pick-up into the parking lot of the bar several hours later, the air still smelled clean, ozone chasing the heat away at least until the morning. The quarter moon was just a hazy glow behind fragmented clouds, and he knew the bar wasn’t busy when he could actually hear his boots crunch the gravel as he crossed the parking lot. For a guy that made no bones of his belief that routine was a terminal condition, Billy had fallen into this particular habit without even realizing. He’d hit the road around noon, just so that he could blast along the highways to make up for lost time. He’d find the venue, take care of any outstanding business, and hang around just long enough get a feel for the place. Then he’d find a good bar. It was a good habit to cultivate, though, so he’d forgiven himself and amended his views to exclude any routine that furthered his career or helped him get laid. And not necessarily in that order. The latter was always a difficult proposition, but if he was patient, if he was careful – two things that rarely came easy when he didn’t have a saddle under him – more often than not he found what he was looking for. The bar was quieter than he’d hoped. It had looked so much more promising when he drove by earlier that afternoon, the parking lot teeming, and music so loud he could hear Chris LeDoux blasting above the distant thunder with the window rolled down. Then again, he might have driven past a completely different bar… A couple of old cowboys propped up one end of the bar, as though they’d taken root years ago. They were watching last week’s ball game on a small TV in the corner, in between trading jokes with the bartender. Billy took a seat at the other end of the bar, and, as soon as the bartender acknowledged his presence, ordered a beer. “In town for the rodeo?” The bartender eyed him as he set the bottle of Bud in front of him. “Yeah.” He looked around hopefully, wishing for any sign of life, any inkling that he was just early, and that this place turned into a deviant little hellcat after nine. Nothing he saw reassured him much, so he relented and asked, “Is it always this quiet?”

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The cowboys sent him a look, but the bartender chuckled. “It’ll pick up over the weekend, but for now…” He inclined his head, indicating the old guys and the TV. “Welcome to the social whirl, kid.” “Yeah…” He tipped the bottle in mock salute, holding the smile until the bartender turned back to the old guys. Catching his reflection in the mirror behind the beer-glass rack, he sent himself a deadpan look. “Thanks.” He’d had the evening planned to the last detail, but he hadn’t counted on this being his only company. Nice as it was to be around people – any people – he was about ready to call it a night. But one beer turned into three, and when the door opened, he’d been engrossed in a segment on the local news about that summer being a good one for tiger beetles in south Texas. Difficult as it was to wrench his attention away from such a riveting discussion, he glanced into the mirror when no one approached the bar. The newcomer sat alone in a booth directly behind him. He watched surreptitiously in the mirror as the bemused bartender finally relented and approached the booth. “What can I get you?” Either the guy missed the trace of amusement, or chose to ignore it. Barely looking up, he just canted his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Martini. Thanks.” The two old cowboys exchanged looks, doing a bang-up job of stifling their laughter, and the bartender probably had to wipe years of dust from the untouched cocktail glasses that graced the shelves behind the bar. They looked as though they’d been there for display purposes only, and that no one believed anyone would order something that required serving in them. Especially not a guy with a brusque, distinctly non-Texan accent that was treating the place like some fancy, city wine bar. Billy liked him already. He studied the guy as the bartender prepared the drink, miraculously enough without having to consult a cocktail instruction manual. The guy looked around Billy’s age, maybe a little older. Perhaps that was an illusion created by the uptight sophistication in the drink choice, in the neatly cut, thick, black hair, in the dark turtleneck sweater and the narrow, wire-rimmed glasses. Not his usual type, that was for sure, but only because he didn’t usually find this type in backwoods bars. Billy was so busy scrutinizing, he didn’t immediately notice that he was being watched just as intently in return. Some flicker of reproach in the look almost made him turn

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away, feeling like a guilty school kid caught peeking. He didn’t get the chance; the other man averted his gaze first, but that unspoken accusation irked him. If anyone was going to look at him as though he’d done something outrageously indecent, he’d damn well better have earned it. Then the guy looked back, and this time the look was one of self-reproach, that he’d caved to some evidently abhorrent temptation. Heh…gotcha. Picking up his beer, he slid off the barstool, mind made up. At least the view would be better. “Hey.” He smiled his most inoffensive smile, and slid into the other seat of the booth before asking, “Mind if I join you?” The guy raised a brow, and shrugged slightly. “Be my guest.” “Thanks.” He smiled broadly. “I swear I was ageing a year a minute, sitting there with those old coots.” “Really?” The guy looked as though he would have been more interested in the tiger beetles than anything Billy had to say. Swirling the clear liquid around his glass, he glanced at the bar, words soft-spoken and indifferent. “They’re not friends of yours?” Billy shook his head, laughing softly. “Nah, I think they’re permanent fixtures. I’m just passing through. You’re not local either, are you?” The eyes behind the glasses were a deep blue. Even in the bad light of the bar, they were staring at him widely enough that he could tell the exact shade, a color just a smidgen lighter than sapphire. “Excuse me?” “The accent.” Billy nodded by way of explanation. “Oh. No, I’m not.” It was a small acquiescence, and hardly the apology Billy thought he deserved, but it was a start. “So, what brings you here?” “Work.” Well shit. He’d had easier rides from ornery broncos than this conversation. “Yeah, me, too.” Somehow he doubted that bragging about being a rodeo cowboy would mean a damn thing to this guy, so he didn’t bother elaborating. Predictably, his companion didn’t ask either. “I’m Billy, by the way.”

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“Spencer.” “Like the old movie star?” Sometimes, he found the perfect center of gravity on a crazy-ass horse, or found the perfect trick for breaking an unruly colt. And sometimes he found the damned perfect thing to say, even if he had no idea why. He hadn’t expected the soft chuckle, but it was all the nicer for it. “Yeah, like the movie star. My mother loved his movies, so…” A slight smile accompanied the shrug this time. “I usually go by Spence, though.” “Well, Spence…” He leaned a little closer, chinking his beer bottle against the side of the martini glass. “Good to meet you.” “Yeah…you too.” He sat back, one hand on his beer, the other arm stretched out along the top of the seat next to him, and watched Spence with an assessing smile. “So, I’m drinking alone 'cause I picked a crappy bar. What’s your excuse?” Twisting the glass by the stem, looking distracted and contemplative all at once, Spence took his time answering. “The people I work with were driving me crazy. I just needed a break for a while, that’s all.” Damn near mesmerized by the fidgeting of those long, slender fingers, he spoke without thinking. “Did I crash your pity party?” Spence laughed, a delightful, little sound, and Billy knew he’d do just about anything to hear it again. “I suppose you did, but that’s okay. I’m sure I’ll thank you eventually.” Billy could think of a few ways Spence could display that gratitude, but instead he just grinned. “Hey, I made you laugh, my work here is done.” “You make a point of entertaining perfect strangers in bars, do you?” Strangers didn’t come much more perfect than this. “Only when I’m feeling extra charitable.” “Well then, this charity case counts himself lucky.” “Hey now, I never said that. You just looked like you needed cheering up is all.” “I suppose I did bite your head off, didn’t I?” Spence smiled, thankfully oblivious to all the wrong places Billy’s mind had just gone. “I’m sorry. But if I get one more `you ain’t

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from ‘round here, are you`…” The theatrically drawled words trailed off into a soft laugh. “I think I might scream.” There was a shadowed edge to his tone that suggested he actually wanted Billy to ask why. Admittedly, something didn’t sit right as to why Spence was here, why he’d taken it upon himself to drive miles out into the boonies instead of staying in town where at least no one would look at him like an Eskimo in the desert just for his taste in drinks. Billy was here through misjudgment and a contempt for paying attention to the details; Spence was here by choice. But curious as he was, he wasn’t in the habit of wanting the life story of prospective bedmates. The less he knew the better. “I get the same thing and I only come from the other side of the state.” “Well, at least you have that advantage.” Spence smiled mildly. “At least no one thinks you’re from a different planet.” He took a delicate sip of his drink, so damn refined that Billy wondered if he’d ever be able to so much as touch him without the fear of him breaking in two. “Ah, ain’t that bad, really. Folks just take a while getting used to new things, that’s all.” Billy paused, before gesturing toward the old men at the bar with a slight tilt of the head. “Bet they’re gonna have a field day just ‘cause I came and talked to you.” “Why?” Spence looked puzzled, then wry. “Because I don’t have a hat and boots?” “’Cause you’re not some cute, little cowgirl in a hat and boots.” He had to assume Spence was staring at him. The light was glinting off the glasses at the perfect angle, obscuring his eyes, replacing them with a distorted reflection of the generic print of a galloping horse that hung on the wall behind him. Billy hoped it was a favorable hesitation, or, failing that, a completely dense one. He didn’t want to end this spectacularly dire evening with Spence beating the crap out of him. Not that Spence looked like the bar brawl type, but Billy was reaching at a whole bucket of conclusions already. “No.” He laughed eventually. “I’m certainly not. Though I’m sure they’d look a lot better on a cute cowgirl than on me.” Billy smiled against the bottle as he took a swig of beer, and murmured softly enough that Spence could ignore it if he chose. “Don’t count on it…” Spence kept his gaze averted, but the faintest flush of color touched his cheeks. It might have been different means to the same end, but if was funny how things always worked out in his favor, however lousy the opening gambit. Maybe it was his blondhaired, brown-eyed good looks; maybe it was his sparkling wit and immeasurable charm.

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Or maybe he was just a lucky son of a bitch. He finished off his beer, watching Spence sip demurely at his drink and look adorably awkward every time their eyes met. He began to stand when Spence set down the empty glass, attention already on the bar, wondering if the bartender could tear himself away from the TV long enough to serve him. “Let me get you another one…” “I should be getting back. Thanks, though.” Shrugging it off as just a minor setback, Billy nodded amiably. “Okay, let me give you a ride then.” Spence shook his head, laughed a little, though the sound was more forced this time. “I’ve had one drink. What am I going to do, drive off into a field and run over a cow?” “Hey, that’s a capital crime around here.” Billy’s attempt at a grin fell a little short. “Besides, that looked like one mighty strong martini there. This guy probably put three times the vermouth in it.” Spence stood, reaching back into the booth for an expensive looking leather coat. He smiled wryly at Billy as he shrugged into it with an easy sort of grace. “Don’t worry, the cows are safe with me.” He hadn’t experienced many more blatant brush-offs, and the rare glimpse of common sense told him to let it go. But when it seemed he wasn’t even going to get a better goodbye than that, something stubborn dug its heels into the back of his mind. He hesitated for a moment, as Spence headed for the door, waiting for some kind of reasonable argument of conscience as to why Billy shouldn’t just chase after him. Okay, so there was the argument that he didn’t chase after anyone, and the argument that Spence just wasn’t interested, but neither one felt reasonable in the least. The congregation at the bar didn’t even glance his way as Billy followed Spence out. Spence’s car was some flashy, little Japanese thing, all bells and whistles, but looked useless for the mud of a dirt track, and his curiosity spiked again; who was this guy? Spence fished keys out of his pocket, pressed a button on a key chain, and the car clicked and whirred, loud in the silence, as the locks opened. “I said I was fine, really.” “I know.” He paused, feeling a nameless disquiet under the scrutiny of Spence’s expectant look. “If I said or did something that made you uncomfortable, then…I’m sorry. Wasn’t what I intended.”

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Spence spent an awful long time staring down at some imaginary speck of grime on the window of the fancy car, before looking up with a sigh. “You didn’t, I just…” He shook his head. “It just wouldn’t have been a good idea.” “Okay. I just wanted you to know that…” “Okay…” Spence nodded distractedly. He turned back for the car before pausing. “Sorry, I didn’t think to ask…do you need a ride somewhere, or…?” That `or` was probably the most tempting thing he’d ever heard, even with his extensive back catalog of come-ons. And it was one of the strangest things he’d done, shaking his head and saying, “No. I’ve got the truck, and it’s not a long ride.” He watched Spence’s guarded expression, looking for any trace of disappointment. “There is something you can do for me though…” He didn’t wait for Spence to question him, doubting he could hold his nerve. Spence was something wild and skittish, and if he didn’t act decisively, Billy would be standing there watching Spence bolt into the distance with a flick of those rinky-dink taillights. If he was lucky, at least Spence wouldn’t kick him. Though he hardly gave the other man time to consider that option, closing the distance between them, pinning Spence back against the car door, kissing him. Spence made a soft sound of surprise, lips parting, and Billy took immediate advantage of the invitation, tongue tracing the curve of those full lips before sliding slowly between them. Spence tasted like the martini, sharp and clean with an underlying sweetness, just as addictive and intoxicating as any cocktail. A shivered thrill ran through him as Spence’s hands came up to rest on his arms, not quite holding on, but touching, and that was enough. Soft lips moved against his, demure and inquisitive, everything he’d expected from the first moment he’d laid eyes on Spence. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after being slammed around an arena by a vicious bronco, such an indulgent, luxurious sensation, it was all he could do not to sigh. It took a second to realize Spence wasn’t kissing back anymore, and that the hands pressed against his chest were pushing him back. “Spence, I—“ “I’m sorry.” Spence shook his head, not meeting his gaze. He turned in Billy’s arms, car keys jangling discordantly as he fumbled with the door handle. As the door swung open, Billy had to take a step back to avoid being hit. Spence certainly wasn’t paying attention to him, gaze fixed resolutely ahead.

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“Spence, wait, please…” The door slammed so hard it would have taken his fingers off if he’d still been leaning against the frame. He tapped the roof lightly, anything just to get Spence to acknowledge him, immediately regretting it in case that tin can car dented. Spence didn’t look up, starting the car on the second try. When he did, that blue gaze branded Billy like a laser. He might not have moved out of the way if Spence had floored the accelerator, but he damn well backed off when he saw the look in the other man’s eyes. Being run over would have hurt less than that wounded, accusatory expression. Then Spence was gone in a blur of taillights and flung-up gravel. Billy stood watching the empty road for a long moment, still tasting martini and sweetness on his lips, before turning back toward the truck. After that ride, eight seconds seemed like a lifetime.

***

“And up next in the saddle bronc event, cowboys and cowgirls, Billy Valentine!” The rodeo announcer drawled his name as though he was introducing a prize-fighter. Maybe he was; sometimes Billy would have preferred going twelve rounds with a heavyweight rather than eight seconds with some of the horses he’d known. They’d fared better in the endeavor of killing him than any guy’s fists ever would. He wouldn’t trade a second of it. It was only a small event compared to some places he’d been before his latest run of bad luck. He hadn’t come close to the rankings last year, hadn’t qualified for a single final. As the announcer reeled off the things he had won during his career, making it sound far more impressive than it truly was, he had to be reminded that those successes were so far in the past he barely remembered how they felt anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he was just going through the motions. On bad nights, when the aches and pains kept him awake and the only thing that didn’t hurt much was thinking, he’d consider his options. He had his high school diploma, a stupidly expensive horse trailer with no horse, no savings, and no attention span for anything besides rodeo. When the prospect of ever doing anything else seemed so far out of reach, he’d sleep gingerly ‘til the bruises faded, pick up his saddle, and carry on. There was nothing he could ever find that compared to this, anyway. Nothing that set off that little shiver of adrenaline deep in his chest every time he approached the chute. The

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horse was there, beneath the swarm of handlers, he could hear it kicking at the bars, snorting and whinnying its disgust at being hemmed in. Even as it settled, it pawed at the dust, tossed its head in a flurry of chestnut mane, as if to remind everyone who cared to listen that it was going along with proceedings, but it wasn’t happy about them in the least. Billy grinned; he knew how the big guy felt. His pulse thundered everywhere: in his throat, in clenched fists, against the brim of his hat, racing harder with every step he took. It was like losing his virginity all over again, weekend after weekend – the anticipation damn near killed him, it was mind-blowing during the act, and it was over way too soon. There wasn’t a feeling like it in the world. Well, almost. The way Spence had felt in his arms came pretty close. It would have run a much tighter race if he didn’t have to qualify that feeling with the way Spence had looked at him afterward. Almost twenty-four hours later, that look was still on his mind. Not just on his mind, but threatening to send his ride all to hell. Focus, dumbshit… Climbing into the chute, he couldn’t tell whether the bars of the gate were shaking, or if the tremble was just in his hands. The adrenaline continued flooding every sense, so pervasive he could almost taste it, sweet and sharp and addictive. He paused, taking a steadying breath. Nothing like risking life and limb to remind a guy that he’s alive… He’d never been that badly hurt, but he’d never put it down to much more than luck. He’d known men twice his age who had barely broken a bone or two in all their years, and seen guys younger than him break a leg on their very first go-round. Talent mattered, and he believed that to placate his ego if nothing else, but he was under no illusion that it was the be -all. The horse let out a loud, displeased whinny as he settled onto the saddle, checking the rigging and the reins, getting a strong, comfortable grip on the leather. Balance mattered now, not later, not when this increasingly finicky beast was going all out to splatter his brains into the advertising boards around the arena. But there came a moment when he was as ready as he was going to be, and the longer they kept the horse in the chute, the more irritated it became. While some irritation

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helped – a horse too laid-back to buck wasn’t going to do him any good – sooner or later it crossed over from necessary to dangerous. The handler at the gate looked at him, waiting for his word to open it up. Billy took a breath, and nodded. It was a gate to another world. As soon as they flung it wide, as soon as he marked out and the horse’s hooves kicked up the first dust of the ring, he was on an eight second freefall, a roller coaster with no tracks. It was hard enough to think for those eight seconds, let alone evaluate his performance. Each bone-shaking buck scrambled his brains and sent teeth-rattling jolts through every joint in his body. But even with his thoughts being scattered ten ways from Sunday around his skull, he could feel he wasn’t doing well. For all its apparent ire, all the horse’s bucks were half-hearted, as if it was asking `is this all you’ve got? `. His spurring wasn’t smooth, he never hit any kind of rhythm, and his form would have been good if he was going for the spread-eagled hooker look. He lasted eight seconds, somehow. That was probably the only positive he could list. The pick-up men reclaimed the horse as Billy dusted himself off. He didn’t need to know the score; that ride was lucky to earn a score, let alone qualify for the next go-round. A part of him was relieved, and he couldn’t find the will to feel bad about that. There’d be another ride, another weekend; maybe by then he’d be thinking straight. He just wanted to get back to the trailer, clean off, and call this weekend a bust all around. Unfortunately, the last voice he wanted to hear at that moment had other ideas. “What the hell was that?” “Later, okay?” He tried to shoulder past, but he should have known better. Nothing short of a stampede would stop Kenny Reed chewing him out for a performance like that. Chances were, he’d still be bitching while the hooves mashed them into the ground. “No, not `later`.” Reed frowned. “And not `okay`.” Lately, very little Billy did was okay as far as Reed was concerned. Now and then, Billy would give him the benefit of the doubt; it probably wasn’t easy watching him galloping merrily down the same path his father had. Reed had already lost enough money backing William Valentine, Sr., and now he had to face the prospect that junior wasn’t going to net him a great return on his investment either.

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It hadn’t been that way at the start. It wasn’t the best of introductions, when Reed had approached him at his dad’s funeral, handed him a business card and said, “Call me. Oh yeah, and sorry about your Daddy.” Billy picked up the phone four days later when the next stack of bills arrived. Billy had appreciated Reed’s no-nonsense approach, and the deal he’d proposed: part sponsorship, part management, and part repaying his dad’s dues, had been the answer to nineteen-year-old Billy’s prayers. Five years later, he wondered if he hadn’t been praying to the devil instead. “Was it the horse?” He considered blaming the animal for a moment, if it meant getting Reed off his back. But Reed would want the poor thing made into glue and shoes before Billy finished making excuses. Hell, if Reed could justify turning Billy into glue and shoes, he’d probably do that, too. “He was fine; I’m the one who lost points.” He continued walking, hoping it would serve as a close to the conversation, but Reed had other ideas. “You know…” Reed began, looking thoughtful in the way that sent little fingers of dread brushing down Billy’s spine. “I found out an old friend of mine’s working for this contractor. If, and it’s a big damned if after tonight kid, I put in a good word then, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—“ He debated for a second whether he was hearing things. “No.” It wasn’t the first time Reed proposed some scheme. But none of the ones that’d gone before smacked of cheating. “Why not?” Reed asked, exasperated as though Billy had just refuted out of hand a perfectly acceptable plan. “Let him match up your strengths with the horses in the draw, that’s all.” Billy stopped, wheeling around, using all of his six-one height to loom over Reed, even though he knew the other man was so far beyond intimidation it made his attempt laughable. “I said no. I’d rather be a loser and do it honestly.” Reed glared at him. “Yeah, well that’s all you’re gonna be if you keep this up. Just like your Daddy.” He had to hand it to Reed, the man knew all the buttons, and knew when to press. “The hell does that have to do with anything? He fell off horses 'cause he was too drunk to tell its head from its ass.” And, all things considered, there was marginally more honor

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in losing by default because you missed your call sleeping off a hangover in the back of a trailer than what Reed had in mind. His dad was a loser, but at least he’d never lied about it. “And tonight, you might as well have been.” “Fuck you.” This time he kept walking, refusing to stop, much as the urge compelled him to turn and smack some sense into Reed’s head. “And if I find out your `friend` has been pulling strings, then I’m outta here.” Reed’s voice called after him, loud enough to draw the attention of those around them. “Much as I’m sure you’d like that, it ain’t happening kid, and you know it. Start pulling results and we’ll talk, but you’re only here tonight on my dime. Don’t forget that.” He was still fuming as he stomped off toward the pens. Everything else aside, it grated that Reed blamed the horse. It hadn’t been the horse. It had been him, and the fact his head had been in all the wrong places. Last time someone else had cost him a ride, it had been his dad. When he’d been called home, his dad sounding like he was on his last breath, he’d ditched the call. When he returned to the trailer, he found dad sprawled out cold, and an illegibly scrawled note on the table saying they were out of whiskey. He sworn then that nothing would ever make him lose focus again. He knew when to play, and he knew when to knuckle down. At least he thought he did. He hadn’t thought he was the superstitious type either, he reminded himself mildly, but here he was indulging in another one. After every ride, he made a point of checking on the horse he’d ridden, just to make sure it was okay, as if to say `no hard feelings`. Tonight’s horse was a lanky, young quarter horse, a glossy, chestnut coat and an offcenter, white blaze. He’d done his best, and it was hardly his fault Billy’s mind had been on riding something else entirely… Most of the time, no one minded him wandering around back here. A lot of the regulars were used to his quirks, and let him carry on without much bother. So it was an annoyance that rubbed his already frayed temper to hear the demanding question barked at him. “What are you doing here?” Billy turned, fully prepared to let fly the evening’s frustration on the poor unfortunate who just didn’t know any better. And venting frustration took on a whole new meaning. “Guess I could ask you the same thing.”

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Spence stared at him, blue eyes wide, lips moving in several failed attempts at speaking. Billy actually thought he could see the faintest flush across the other man’s cheeks, but Spence looked away before he could feel too happy about it. “I work here. I’m the vet for the stock contractor.” Billy whistled lowly, a sound that caught the attention of the horses in a twenty-foot radius, but had very little effect on Spence. “Small world.” “Very. Look, I still need to know what you’re—“ “I’m just looking for my horse, that’s all.” Spence looked dubious. “Your horse?” “Well…no, not technically, but the horse I just rode, and…” He trailed off into a sigh that was only half serious. “Are you always this difficult? I thought it was just about last night…” He leaned a little closer, smiling at the reappearance of that blush. “Or even that it was about me, but I’m getting the feeling you’re just a stubborn little shit in general.” He hadn’t expected that to go over well, but it was worth it just to see the affronted glare contradicting the blush. “No, you were right the first time; it’s all about you.” Billy rocked back on his heels and chuckled. “So, are you gonna let me go see the horse?” Spence watched him, deliberating silently for a long moment. “Why?” “Just wanna thank him for the ride, is all.” He shrugged, dismissive before Spence had the chance to be. “Stupid, little superstition.” Billy might as well have put up a target for more remarks, but instead of taking any of the shots he could have, Spence just nodded slightly. “All right.” He turned and began walking, not even waiting to see if Billy was following. “But don’t cause any trouble, it’ll be my responsibility if they know I let you…” “If I was gonna be trouble, Spence, I’d be the kinda trouble you’d like.” Spence didn’t reply, but there was a stiffening of his shoulders that betrayed the fact he’d heard. Billy grinned, following at a leisurely pace, hands in the pockets of his jeans. The horse was snaffling lazily at a pallet of hay. He raised his head as they approached, sparing Billy a look that feigned utter innocence. There wasn’t a hint of the stubborn, irate creature he’d ridden just a few minutes earlier. He stepped into the pen, approaching

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slowly, until he could reach out, run one hand down the side of a strong neck. The horse snorted softly, turning his head, butting Billy in the shoulder. Billy chuckled, stroking the bright white blaze, while the horse continued nuzzling his shirt. “Sorry, big guy, you ain’t gonna find any treats in there…” Just being back here was grounds for suspicion, even disqualification, if the contractors found him feeding their animals anything, he’d be facing serious penalties. Even if he was here with their veterinarian. He sent Spence a sidelong grin. “The treats in there are strictly adults only…” Spence found something in the direction of the hay that held his rapt attention. The chestnut snuffled Billy’s hand mildly, as though he was in on the joke, looking every bit the tame sweetheart. Billy raised a brow, meeting those chocolate brown eyes with a withering stare. “So what was all that whinnying and kicking a fuss before, huh? Pitching a fit like I was the one who sent your momma off to the steak house. I liked you. Drama queen, I swear…” He looked up to see Spence watching him, with an expression that suggested he’d spontaneously sprouted an extra head. “What?” “Nothing.” “What did you expect me to do, drag the big guy out by the tail and throw him on a barbecue?” “Oh, I don’t know…” Spence leaned against the pen gate, arms folded across his chest, one brow arched. The pose was cagey, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’ve only just met him; shouldn’t you be trying to kiss him by now?” “Ah, but he really ain’t my type.” “Really?” Spence feigned surprise. “He’s breathing. I’d have thought that was enough.” Giving the horse one last pat on the shoulder, Billy turned toward Spence with a rueful smile. “You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” “No, I’m not.” The corners of Spence’s mouth threatened to tug into a smile. “Whatever this is, anyway.” “Well…” Billy leaned against the opposite side of the fence. “This is me asking you to go have a drink with me, how’s that for easy?”

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He was already running mental bets with himself on how quickly Spence would turn him down. He’d come on too strong, and he couldn’t erase that spooked look, even when he tried, as if he’d expected Billy to ruin his life soon as touch him. He’d had some weird looks in his time. Like the guy in the bar in Austin, with the pink tasseled shirt and the gelled back hair, who’d given him that evil straight guy look when he’d flirted. Or the girl in Cheyenne who’d damn near killed him with a glare when he’d offered to buy her a drink after her brother turned him down. No one had ever looked at him as though they stood for everything that was wrong in their world. And it begged the question why he was even bothering a second attempt, but he hadn’t been planning on a second ride. It seemed a shame to let it go to waste. He kept his best innocent expression in place as long as he could, until Spence finally looked away with a soft, shrewd little laugh. “You just don’t give up, do you?” Billy grinned. “No sir.” “Just a drink.” “I swear.” He held up his hands solemnly. “I’ll sit on my hands all night if it makes you feel better, make them bring me a straw with my beer, won’t so much as lay a finger on you.” He looked up, wickedness peeking through the vehemence. “Unless you ask nicely.” Spence shook his head. “Careful cowboy, you’re not that far ahead.” He smiled a little, ushering them both out of the pen and closing the gate. “It’ll be late when I’m done here.” “I’ll wait,” Billy answered, a little too fast, a little too eager. Though he doubted anyone who’d laid eyes on Spence would ever coin a phrase as crazy as “too” anything. “I’ll see you later.” It wasn’t a question, but he hoped Spence would verify it anyway. “Yeah…” He watched Spence leave, so lost in the appreciation of the view that he jumped when the chestnut snuffled behind him, snuffling at his sleeve. He grinned, reaching over the fence to scratch that white blaze again. “I am so in there.” The horse snorted, and Billy’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t believe me, huh?” Billy turned back to watch Spence, but he’d disappeared into the crowd. “No, me either…”

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***

They ended up at a different bar, one that couldn’t be more different if it had set out to do so. The music sent thumping vibrations through the sidewalk outside, and the noise rose in staccato bursts every time the doors opened. Dust and smoke chased out the few patrons that exited, but more and more kept arriving, as though the small, squat building was some elaborate optical illusion, far bigger inside than out. Spence felt a little claustrophobic already, but reasoned that there was safety in numbers. Billy made it to the bar before him. Spence wondered if that was purely by dint of having learnt how to maneuver in crowds of rowdy cowboys. He wasn’t sure what to think when Billy ordered a beer and a martini. It didn’t have to mean anything; it wasn’t as though Billy could forget what Spence liked to drink. “Here.” Billy handed him the glass, grinning in something like triumph at the faint blush Spence couldn’t hide. “Thank you…” He took the drink carefully, fingers brushing Billy’s along the stem, trying his damnedest not to admit to the shiver that ran through him at the contact. Instead he took the paper napkin that came with the glass, fanned himself with it. “It’s hot in here.” Billy beamed at him, the way someone would with a two year old who’d just done the cutest thing. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Yes, actually, he did. It was the uncertainty of what might happen when they got there that proved the problem. “No.” He shook his head instead. “It’s fine.” The tables at the back of the barroom were free. Most of the other patrons had chosen to congregate standing up, obscuring their view of the door, and, more importantly, preventing Spence from making too fast a getaway. He wasn’t actively planning on it. Billy’s presence was just…a little overwhelming. It would have been all right, if they’d met a year ago, even a month ago. Then he could have accepted the attentions of a pretty, small-town boy, and appreciated this for what it was. He wouldn’t have paid attention to Billy’s motives, for better or worse, believing they could hardly affect him.

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But they could. He’d learned that the hard way. The last man he’d trusted had almost ruined his life. Professor Harry Russell certainly had the power to do so, and Spence wasn’t entirely certain why he hadn’t finished the job he started. One word from him, and Spence wouldn’t have so much as worked in a pet store again, let alone as a vet. They hadn’t even been lovers, much as Spence might have liked it if they were. Handsome, brilliant, and charming, Russell had been someone all the students came to see as a friend. Spence had been no exception. From the first time they met, he’d been enchanted, wanting to please and so certain this man could do no wrong. Russell had used that against him, too, to lure him in and to frighten him off. He’d been so blinded by awe and adulation that by the end it had ceased to be an unrequited crush and had turned into blind devotion. Even when the stories began circulating, gossip Russell could have refuted if he’d chosen to, Spence still clung to his illusions. Russell wasn’t like that, it was all a mistake. And it was, but only for him. It had taken this job, recommended to him by the few friends he had left that hadn’t sided with Russell, to allow him to start forgetting. He was only weeks into this job, one he’d sought out and gained on merit. For the first time, everything he laid claim to, he’d earned, not because of the weight wielded by the Quinn name in important circles, not because of his favorable associations at college. He was here because he was damn good at what he did. And nothing, no matter how pretty, how funny, how charming, was going to take that away from him. It didn’t matter how sincere Billy was, it didn’t even matter how noncommittal this might be. He had too much to lose, and he’d lost enough already. They chose their seats, in an odd echo of the previous night, except for the lack of tacky, distressed horse pictures. He sat in silence, sipping his Martini and listening to unfamiliar music on the jukebox, as long as he could tolerate it. With Billy’s stare burning holes in him, that was remarkably long. “What?” He asked eventually, berating himself for being the first to cave. “Tell me if I’m wrong…” Billy began, tone undemanding, but gaze intent. “But I thought we were getting along kinda well last night.” “Well, if you think a kiss constitutes `getting along`, then—“

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“Look, there you go again…” Billy smiled, head canted. “I’ve had straighter answers from a bag of curly fries. And yeah, for the record, I think it constitutes getting along really well.” Spence shook his head. “I told you last night, it just…wouldn’t be a good idea.” Billy deserved some kind of explanation, and Spence decided that half of one was better than nothing at all. “I’m two weeks into this job, I’m moving around so much my head’s spinning. I bought an apartment I haven’t slept in yet. I’m not looking for anything else right now…” Billy stared at him, then burst out laughing. “It was a kiss! If you think it was some kinda marriage proposal, then you really need to get out more, seriously.” “I didn’t say that!” He was blushing again, he could tell. He hadn’t blushed this much in high school, though, granted, science club hadn’t exactly been a hotbed of emotional vulnerability. “Look…I’ll make a deal with you.” Billy smiled. “You give me a chance. Just quit whatever it is you’re so damn worried about and pretend you’re having a good time, and I‘ll behave myself.” Despite himself, Spence laughed softly. “Do you really think you can?” Billy sat back, grinning. “I like a challenge.” “I’m a challenge now, am I?” “No…” Billy watched him, and Spence resisted the urge to squirm under the shrewd scrutiny. “More of a puzzle.” Spence laughed. He should have been more nervous that Billy seemed to know far too much about him after only meeting him twice. He’d always thought he covered up pretty well, thought he built his walls strong and tall. Maybe Billy was just incredibly perceptive, he decided, happy to convince himself. “I’m a pretty simple puzzle then.” Billy took a sip of beer, and Spence would have given anything in that moment just to know how the thoughts were linking up behind those brown eyes. Or maybe you’re just as transparent as a wet Kleenex, Spence… “I don’t think so.” Spence shook his head, wondering for whom this challenge had really been intended. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

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Billy watched him over another swig of beer, before replying. “What do you want to tell me?” As little as possible. He shrugged, as though divulging anything wasn’t a big deal. “I’m Spence Quinn, I’m a veterinarian—“ “I know all that already.” Billy chided playfully. “Gimme something interesting.” Spence raised a brow. “What do I get in return?” “You’ll just have to wait, won’t you?" After his icy stare got him nowhere, Spence shrugged. “I grew up outside Philadelphia. I got my doctorate from Penn. I knew I wanted to work with horses ever since my father took me to the Belmont Stakes the summer I turned six.” Billy kept looking at Spence expectantly, a deviousness that screamed `impress me!` glinting in his eyes, and when a long silence didn’t seem to appease him, Spence had no choice but to carry on. Well, he could have left Billy believing there was some mystery to him, but that was hardly an option at all. “I have a kid sister and a kid brother. My parents live in the Hamptons and I haven’t spoken to them in two years.” Or they hadn’t spoken to him, except to deride him for soiling the name of a good man like Professor Russell. It amounted to the same thing. “I had a little, gray mare when I was ten that my parents called Broccoli, just to encourage me to eat my greens. All it did was traumatize me every time they said `Spencer, eat your broccoli`. I love coffee and hate orange juice.” He sighed, exasperated. “What more do you want?” Billy grinned. “That’ll do for starters. At least now I know never to bring you orange juice with breakfast.” Spence almost choked on the sip he’d taken of his martini, and tried to muster a glare that, predictably, went right over Billy’s head. “So you came out here straight outta school, huh?” It was a good thing he was already glaring; it spared the effort of doing it again. This wasn’t perception, he decided, this was downright creepy. “No. I was doing an internship that…fell through.” He took another sip of his drink, wishing it was three times as strong, and changed the subject so fast the gears squealed.

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“But fair’s fair. What do I know about you except that when they made your ego, the only thing bigger was the sun?” “Not much to tell.” Billy smiled, and shrugged. “My birth certificate says I was born in Austin. I guess there was a rodeo in town that weekend ‘cause all I remember after is traveling around with my dad. He’d stick me in whatever school sat in the middle of the circuit he was working, and we moved around every few months.” The words were affectionate, but laced with a thread of bitterness. Spence doubted Billy was fishing for sympathy, but he felt it quietly anyway. “So this thing’s in your blood.” He smiled a little. “I bet your father’s proud of you, following the family tradition.” “He never saw me compete.” Billy’s attention focused on the pressing task of picking at the label on the beer bottle. Spence’s attention, meanwhile, was on wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. “He loved Mr. Daniels even more than he loved to ride, and both of those more than me. Don’t get me wrong,” he glanced up, “it was a long time ago. And my mom had more sense than to stick it out, she lit out to hell knows where when I was still riding hobbyhorses…” “I’m sorry…” “Ah, like I said, it was a long time ago. And I still have my dad’s old sponsor backing me, so as long as I go easy on this stuff,” he tapped the side of the bottle, a soft thud vibrating from the glass. “I’ll be okay.” “Didn’t you ever want to do something else?” “Oh, yeah, a hundred times a day.” Billy smiled ruefully. “Ask me if I could do anything else, even if I tried. Ask me if I could sleep at night knowing I wasn’t riding. It can beat the shit out of me as often as it wants; it still knows I’ll come crawling back.” Spence swirled the last mouthful of his drink around the glass, the dim barroom lights catching on the ripples every now and then, making them sparkle. “Yeah…I know what you mean.” For once, Billy didn’t ask, and Spence was grateful. Things were already going too well, he wanted to walk out of here tonight with pleasant memories of a nice evening, and answers now would only sour it. He didn’t have enough friends in this new world he’d fallen into to fall out with one over something like this. It was hardly quiet, the jukebox still thrumming in the corner, and the clatter of glasses, boots, and voices. But he didn’t like the silence that had descended over them.

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“Are you riding again tomorrow?” “Nah.” Billy shook his head. “I’m gonna go lick my wounds for the weekend. But you’re gonna be at every event, right? You’re on site with the contractor?” “That’s what I signed up for.” “So I’ll see you next weekend?” Spence blinked, too surprised to hide the unexpected little flicker of disappointment. “Are you leaving already?” Billy grinned widely, the smile turning from golden boy to downright wicked in a heartbeat. “Would you miss me?” Cursing himself, Spence tried for a nonchalant shrug. “Only because I don’t know how else I’m getting back to the hotel.” He leaned forward slightly across the table, determined not to give Billy more of an upper hand in this than he already had. “Maybe I could ask one of these nice gentlemen at the bar to give me a ride, hmm?” Billy laughed out loud, shaking his head. “Damned evil as that is, and damn tempting as you are, I have to get back. If I don’t pick up the trailer they’ll charge me another day for it, and if I’m not riding I’m not gonna throw good money after bad.” Spence arched a brow. “Isn’t that the cowboy way?” “Rich ones, maybe.” Billy grinned. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel first, though. If you can tear yourself away from your other gentlemen.” “You don’t want to invite me to your trailer to show me your collection of rocks shaped like cowboy hats?” “Nah, they’re off being polished.” Billy laughed. After a pause, he asked, far too innocently, “Do you want to come see my rocks?” Faintly surprised that yes, actually, he wouldn’t mind that at all, he had to force himself to rein in the reactions Billy could seemingly glean just by being a charming, devious ass. No one had made him lower his guard like this in a long time. He wasn’t sure he liked it. If he agreed now, without taking the time to creep back into his shell and analyze what the hell Billy was doing to him, he’d do something stupid. Worse than kisses, worse than letting the unspoken challenges in Billy’s words have the desired effect. “Maybe next time.”

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He half expected, or maybe hoped, Billy would pester him, but Billy just smiled. “I’ll hold you to that, y’know.” Although a small part of him was watching from its solitary, little corner, horrified, Spence smiled back. “You better.”

*** He hadn’t lied; he was looking forward to seeing Billy again. He just hadn’t anticipated that being all he’d enjoy about the weekend. Spencer had long held a sneaking suspicion that animals were smarter than people, but the past few months had just gone to prove it. He loved his work when he was around the horses, but one human being making demands of him and he could feel his blood pressure rise. Anti-socialism had crept up on him, like an addiction he indulged to preempt the whispers, the silences, the stories. When he realized he was doing it, it was too far-gone to change. He’d never been gregarious, but growing up around corporate dinners and country clubs, he had learned how to network with the best of them. Lately though, he was happiest when he could drop off the radar entirely. Jacob Diamond, owner of Diamond Rodeo Stock, had been different. He’d spent most of the interview showing Spence all the portraits he’d had commissioned of his favorite horses. They dominated the huge paneled office at the company ranch, dark oil paintings against sun-dappled white walls. Jacob had seemed more interested in Spence’s reasons for choosing this career than any stories associated with his name. He was glad. He’d have hated that kind, grandfatherly man to look at him with the same disdain he’d just left behind. Spence had looked forward to working with someone who so obviously shared his passion. He’d been unaware when he accepted the job that Mr. Diamond only attended big events for the sake of sponsors and good press. At all the other events, his management team was in charge, a group of people, who, between them, Spence doubted would even know which end of a horse to pin the tail on. And despite his credentials, he was answerable to most of them. He suspected that his appointment had more to do with PR than Mr. Diamond ever truly intended. They’d transported fewer horses to this event, so in theory there was less for him to do. The animals had been stabled in their pens the night before, and should have enjoyed a lazy evening, ready for the following day’s events. They’d certainly been fine that morning when Spence checked up on them.

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He’d been wondering about finding somewhere to have lunch, and even thinking about inviting Billy if he could find him, when one of the handlers called him to the pen of a young, gray mare. “What happened?” At first the damage wasn’t obvious, until the mare turned curiously at his approach. The jagged cut ran down one hind leg, halfway between the hock and the ankle, matting the silver fur with blood. “She knocked part of the fence loose, scraped herself up in the process.” The handler shrugged. “Looks worse than it is.” Spence almost asked why he’d been called, if the handler could make such a quick and educated diagnosis, but attending to the injury took priority. “Let me get some supplies and I’ll take a look.” The handler had the horse tethered by the time he got back, and from the way she was stomping irritably, it didn’t seem as though the injury was troubling her. Grudgingly admitting that the handler had probably been right, he began cleaning the site. The scrape was shallow, and much of the mess she’d made seemed superficial. Once clean, it was barely visible. She had a couple of attempts at kicking him in the head if he prodded and poked too roughly, but bristling aside, she didn’t seem in much pain. The cut skirted some delicate muscle structure, and his main concern was that she'd done some damage he couldn’t see. “What’s going on?” He was taping up the dressing when the voice barked at him from the gate, and found himself consciously wiping the scowl from his face before answering. “Nothing, now. She bashed herself on the fence.” Anthony Cordell, the wasp of a man Mr. Diamond saw fit to employ as head of the management team, glared at him as though Spence was personally responsible. “Is she all right?” Taking him time to finish fixing the dressing, patting the mare on the flank in thanks for not kicking his brains out, Spence stood, and turned to Cordell. “She’s fine. But I’d let her sit tonight out, just to make sure there’s no bruising on that muscle.” Cordell raised a brow, displeasure on his pinched face wordlessly affirming that Spence’s words were quite possibly the most absurd thing he’d ever heard in all his days. “That’s impossible.” “I know it’s inconvenient, but—“

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“Inconvenient?” Cordell’s tone rose several octaves, as though Spence didn’t know the meaning of the word. “It’s more than inconvenient.” He paused, sighing loudly, trying his hardest, no doubt, to make Spence feel responsible for wrecking his entire weekend, if not his entire life. “Do you honestly think she’s at serious risk if she competes?” “Well, not serious.” He admitted. “But—“ “And would it impede her performance?” “Only if it was clearly bothering her.” “Do you think it is?” Spence looked over at the mare. She didn’t seem in any great discomfort, and she was placing her weight evenly on the injured leg. She watched them disinterestedly, as though the conversation had no bearing on her whatsoever. “We’d be cutting it fine if we withdraw any livestock. We don’t have time to bring in a replacement, and if any of the others pull out, or if it turns out we’ll need to cover more re-rides…” Cordell looked at him meaningfully. “If she’s even eighty-five, ninety percent fit then it’s a risk we have to take.” “It’s your choice.” He turned back to Cordell. He really liked the use of `we`, as though Spence agreed with him. “I’d prefer if she sat this one out, just to play it safe, but she still has a few hours to rest, and it’s not a deep injury, the muscle probably isn’t damaged. She could be fine, but she might just as easily not be.” Cordell nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll get the local guy to give her a once over. You know, just a second opinion, second pair of eyes.” He glanced at Spence, before turning on his heel, striding away. “And then we’ll decide.” “A second opinion?” Cordell missed his incredulity, but that didn’t soften the sting much. Neither did the knowledge that no other vet would tell Cordell any different, no one would tell him what he wanted to hear. But ultimately, it wasn’t his decision; he could advise and inform and beg on his knees, but he doubted Cordell would pay any heed. If he wanted the horse in the draw, then she would be. At least the handler looked a little sympathetic as Spence gathered up the leftover supplies, bundling up most of it as trash. It wasn’t lost on him that his opinion was worth just as much.

***

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It was a livelier event, a rowdier crowd. The prize money wasn’t outstanding, but when he was down to the last few bucks he was saving for gas to get him to the next rodeo, the difference between third and second, second and first, mattered immensely. Reed hadn’t wasted any time reminding him of that, latching onto him the moment Billy arrived. “You thought any more about what I said, kid?” Billy concentrated on checking his boots and spurs, trying unsuccessfully to tune Reed out. “Only when I really needed something stupid to laugh at.” “What the hell is your problem, huh?” Reed hissed, voice low. “Do you even have the first clue what you’re turning down?” “Yeah, plenty.” Reed ignored him. “I’m not suggesting we buy out every damn judge. What’s the harm, huh? What harm is there in making sure the animals in the draw are the very best they can be for you?” “Exactly. For me. What about all the other guys in that go-round? You think they’d reckon it was harmless, you reckon they’d think it was fair?” “Fair?” Reed laughed, incredulous. “Take your head out of your ass, kid. Do you think any of those guys would accept mediocre rides if they could sway the odds a little in their favor? You think any of them would give a fuck about fair if they knew whatever came out of the draw was gonna give them the best chance at winning?” “Yeah, matter of fact I do.” “Then you’re even more stupid than your Daddy, and at least he could blame the whiskey for addling his brain.” “Why do you always bring him into this? It’s got nothing to do with anything.” “Tap dancing Christ, kid, it’s still a draw, you know?” Apparently realizing that threatening wasn’t going to get him far, Reed switched to imploring, a strange, little act designed to make Billy feel bad for even arguing. “It’s just the strongest draw it can be, what’s wrong with that?” Billy shook his head, straightening up and stretching. “I can’t believe you’re even asking that.” He paused. “Wait, you’re a money grabbing asshole with the principles of a slug’s shit, sure I can believe it…” “I’m doing this for you!” Reed glared at him. “Ungrateful little bastard. You think I like seeing you do badly just because they’ve given you a dud horse that wouldn’t buck right

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if you stuck a cattle prod up its ass? And I don’t mean the money, I mean watching you lose because of someone else’s mistakes.” Billy looked at him warily. “Maybe it’s just me, you ever considered that? Maybe I just suck.” “That’s crazy and you know it. Do you think I’d have wasted my time, and yeah, okay, my money, if you weren’t good? I have the power right now to give you the chance to shine. You tell me what’s wrong with wanting that, Billy, and I’ll walk away right now.” He knew Reed would never walk away, at least not without getting a lawyer to bleed Billy for everything he had. But it bothered him how much the thought alone unnerved him. He didn’t want Reed to be the one standing there, chewing him out after a bad ride. But he couldn’t have his father there, and in the past five years Reed had been more a Dad than William Valentine, Sr. ever was. Granted that was hardly a glowing compliment, it just meant Reed wasn’t drunk enough to forget his name. The only thing worse than having to live with the knowledge that he wasn’t playing fair for a while, was the thought of no one waiting after a ride. No one caring, for whatever reason, how well or how badly he’d done. Spence crossed his mind for a fleeting moment, and he tried to picture Spence waiting for him at all. Spence seemed ready to run every second they were together. “I want you to do well, kid, that’s all. I’d do anything within my power to make you the best you can be. I promised your Daddy I’d look out for you…” Reed smiled wryly. “And I don’t reckon he heard me, it was probably happy hour in heaven at the time, but I did, I know I made that promise.” “I know…” “Yeah, I lose money if you lose. I’m not trying to deny that pisses me off. But it pisses me off more sitting there watching you doing everything right and still being screwed over.” He watched Reed for a long moment, trying to decide whether the other man was just playing him for an idiot. Kenny Reed didn’t do sincerity, but the things he’d said were wearing a damn good disguise if they were bullshit. He shook his head, turning, beginning to walk away. “Billy, listen—“

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“Just…” He stopped, not quite able to meet Reed’s eyes as he turned back briefly. It felt like he was selling his soul for a handful of beans. “I don’t want to know about it, okay? Whatever’s going on, whatever you’re doing, I…don’t want to know about it.” Reed nodded. “Okay. I understand.” He hung around, more patient than he ever thought he could be, in case he caught sight of Spence. The other man had plenty of work to do, he appreciated that, but just a smile, a look, something he could hold onto like a good luck charm. Last time Billy saw him, he’d been disappearing into the small guest house that had passed for the best hotel in town. He felt a little bad for the white lie about the trailer – he never parked it anywhere he had to pay, and to this day no one had towed it away. Spence would have forgiven him for the fib, though, he convinced himself, if he knew it was for his benefit. Billy doubted he could have kept `behaving` if he’d taken Spence back to the trailer. Hell it had been tough enough sitting next to him in the truck without reaching over, touching for the sake of touch. Better to quit on a high. When he knew Spence would be at every rodeo he was attending for the best part of the year, the value of biding his time truly hit home. He had plenty of time to convince Spence, plenty of weekends, plenty of re-rides if things weren’t going to plan. Not before his ride, though, it seemed. Once the draw was called, he thought about sneaking back again, under the pretense of checking on the horse he’d drawn, in the hopes of finding Spence. But whether he knew about Reed’s plans or not, he didn’t think he could look at the horse without feeling as though everyone knew. Without feeling that Spence knew. He spent the time before his ride psyching himself up, and trying his hardest not to think about whatever machinations had gone on in the meantime. Reed was right, no one was getting hurt, and besides, if the draw was stronger, it was stronger for everyone. There might be ten guys whose strengths and weaknesses were exactly like his own, and they’d benefit from a better selection process, too. Hell, it might even be shooting himself in the foot, if someone else got a fantastic ride by dint of this. With not thinking about it going really well, he was grateful when he was finally called. He wouldn’t have time to worry when he was concentrating on just staying in one piece. He could tell it was different from the moment he climbed into the chute. The gray mare beneath him was thrumming with adrenaline, shivering with it like a low level current. It was like sitting on a washing machine, not that he had any idea how that felt, of course. She stayed stock still as he settled, just her ears flicking back and forth, head held high and alert.

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She was as eager for the ride as he was. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time. And it crossed his mind that by rights he shouldn’t be feeling it now, but who was to say he wouldn’t have ended up with the same horse in the same draw anyway? Maybe this was arbitrary luck; maybe Reed hadn’t done anything after all. Maybe it had all been some elaborate ruse to snap him out of the rut. Either way, he could think about that later. The mare shot out of the gates like a missile, and from the first moment her hooves hit the dust, she let him fall into a perfect rhythm, spurring and bucking, counterbalancing like the most elaborate dance. She bucked clean and hard, each one as precise as the one before, as though there was some invisible line around them that she had to reach every time. She was the perfect high roller, and he could feel it, that if he just managed to hold on, she was scoring so well for both of them that he had to place, at the very least. She didn’t want to stop when eight seconds were done, and truth be told neither did he. He wouldn’t know his score ‘til the go-round was done, but if it was anything less than an eighty, he was going to eat his hat. And he knew where the once-black, now faded gray Resistol had been. He spent the remainder of the event watching the competitors, trying to pre-empt the judging. It wasn’t always easy to distinguish how things felt from how they looked, but nothing he saw came close. He’d be going away with some kind of result, he was certain of that. And if he ever caught sight of Spence, he might win more than just cold hard cash. Time dragged harder than a buckaroo tangled up in a bull’s rigging when he couldn’t find Spence, didn’t want to find Reed, and wouldn’t tear his attention away from his competitors. When the results finally came through, he held his breath, suddenly terrified that they’d announce his disqualification for tampering with the draw. Reed wouldn’t do that to him, he reasoned, but it was Reed’s competence that worried him, not the man’s moral resolve. Reed’s percentage cut of his winnings was incentive enough to buy morals, this time. No one said disqualified, but the eighty-two points they did announce was almost as jarring. He hadn’t scored an eighty-two in months. He hadn’t scored eighty anything in longer than he cared to admit. Second place was seventy-nine; he’d hardly won by a landslide, and for once that was a relief. No one would ask any questions, no one would have reason for suspicion.

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Right about now, though, he would have liked Reed to pounce on him, laugh and poke fun at him for falling for such an obvious ploy, and wasn’t he grateful now that Reed had given him a veritable kick in the ass? There was no pouncing. There were congratulations here or there from fellow competitors, a couple of slaps on the back, but Reed was conspicuously scarce. Maybe it got to Reed as much as it did to him. Maybe this would be a one-off, an aberration, and they’d never speak of it again. But if the objective had been to pump him up, remind him of the high that came from seeing his name next to first place and a nice sum of money, it was working. That was where he belonged, not down in the also-rans where everyone could look at his name, shake their heads sadly, and say, “not reaching his potential, just like his Daddy.” He was better than that. And after this little boost of confidence, he could tell Reed to stop, he could prove it on his own. When he caught sight of Spence on the other side of the arena, locked in conversation with some beanpole of a man wearing a bad suit and an expression like he’d been chewing lemons, it was just the distraction he was looking for. The man was gone by the time he’d elbowed through the milling crowd to get to Spence, though from what Billy had seen, it hadn’t been all that friendly a conversation. He took a moment to berate himself for being glad about that, for letting a little flicker of jealousy rise to the surface. “Did you see that?” He had the urge to pick Spence up and whirl the man around, but even past the rush of glory, he doubted that was a good idea. “Yeah…you were great.” It was hard to keep hold of his euphoria when Spence sounded as though someone just called and told him his puppy died. Any jealousy turned to protectiveness at the thought the beanpole man had upset Spence somehow. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing…” Spence shook his head, smile becoming more resolute at Billy’s skeptical look. “Nothing. Really. So, are you going to invite me somewhere to celebrate?” “Well, I had other things in mind besides celebrating…” he began, pleased that Spence’s mildly fussy reaction was at least a little more predictable. He couldn’t know, he just couldn’t. He’d give back every damn cent of his winnings as long as Spence didn’t know how he’d earned them. “But if that’s all I’m gonna get, then…”

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“Do you ever really get very far with these lines?” Spence raised a brow, wryly. Billy grinned. “You tell me.” “Buy me a drink and we’ll talk.” Spence smiled a little. “Besides, you’re not here to see me, are you?” He’d forgotten all about the horse. Still, at the thought of it, the guilt tightened its hold on him; it would be like facing his downfall across a hay bale. “She’s down that way,” Spence went on, slightly evasive. “I have other things to do so I can’t go with you, but you can tell them I authorized it. For what it’s worth. I’ll see you later.” Billy sighed softly to himself, watching Spence leave. It was a little hypocritical to worry about whatever Spence obviously wasn’t telling him, when Billy was keeping a hell of a lot to himself, too. But he worried a little anyway; whoever that guy had been, he hadn’t done much for Spence’s mood. Still, it meant he could try harder to lift it later. He thought about going to see the horse. If he ever needed to thank a horse for the ride, he needed to thank the gray mare, but ridiculous as it was, he couldn’t face her. He imagined the scorn in her eyes, her royally pissed off snorts. She’d know perfectly well she’d been chosen for him, or as good as, when she might have been destined for someone else. He’d tell Spence later that he checked in on her, just for the sake of not having to explain. But he wouldn’t go and see her. He wouldn’t be thanking her for the ride, he’d be thanking her for keeping her silence.

*** Spence’s mood didn’t seem much improved when he finally came back to tell Billy he was done for the night, and despite Billy’s best efforts, he remained distracted throughout the drive. They passed a couple of restaurants and a handful of bars, but each time Billy offered to stop, Spence’s reply was noncommittal, and he kept driving. Billy considered for a moment taking all the fragments and adding two and two together to make five, whether Spence was miserable for the same reason he was. After all, he’d never asked Reed who his inside man was, for all he knew that man was sitting across the pick-up’s cab, staring blankly out of the window.

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He dismissed that idea as soon as it came. Spence was one of the good guys, as short a time as Billy had known him, that was still inherently obvious. His job and those horses meant the world to him, he wouldn’t have jeopardized them for anything. It was just a shame Billy couldn’t say the same about himself anymore. He’d almost driven through town, on one long main street that glimmered like a supernova. At the center were strip-malls, car dealerships, and fast food restaurants, and the edges petered out into clustered bars and closed-down stores. It was a generic, little galaxy all its own, and Billy would rather slam his balls in the door than consider staying for longer than a weekend in a place like this. The bar that rolled up on Spence’s side of the road seemed lively enough, trucks and music and cowboy hats. Spence, though, looked a little pensive when they drew up outside the bar, as though he’d rather be anywhere than here. Billy let the engine idle, waiting for Spence to notice that he wasn’t asking, wasn’t demanding, just would like to know at some point whether to turn off the engine. “Can we go somewhere quieter?” It wasn’t an invitation to bed, to make love ‘til neither of them could move, but coming from Spence, even now, it was the next best thing. He even managed to refrain from reminding Spence they’d passed several places that were quieter. They ended up on the back roads, with nowhere to stop between the town and the rolling fields except a gas station. He doubted Spence would appreciate that, and neither would the gas station staff; hot as it would be, no one wanted to watch him and Spence making out. If it got that far. Spence’s mood wasn’t exactly an encouraging portent. He expected the accusations to start flying as soon as he pulled off the deserted highway onto a wide grassy verge and killed the engine. The night was starry on the flat plains all around them, and the lights of town glittered just behind them. It felt like being in an upturned bowl peppered with thousands of pinpricks of light. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to start guessing? And lemme tell you, I don’t guess well.” Spence turned, blinking as though he’d never even heard Billy speak before. After a moment, he asked what was possibly the very last thing Billy had expected, “Was she okay?” “The horse?” He was beginning to get a disquieting feeling about the direction the conversation was heading, but answered anyway. “Yeah, she was fine. More than fine.” Spence nodded, and Billy let out a breath, deciding that at least he’d given the right answer.

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“Why?” “No reason…” Spence shook his head, though not quite as lost in thought as he had been. “A professional disagreement, that’s all.” “The guy you were talking to before?” The pieces were slotting into place, and thankfully he didn’t seem to feature on any of them. “Yeah. But I might as well not exist as far as he’s concerned.” Billy laughed softly. “There’s someone out there who can ignore you? Lemme guess, he’s blind? Stupid? Both?” “Mostly just stupid, I think.” Billy shrugged. “Besides, he’s just one guy, how important can he be?” “He’s my superior. But he’s not my boss.” Spence smiled a little. “If Jacob Diamond came to more events, things’d be very different…he’s a good man.” “See? Rat the asshole out to your boss and forget about him. He ain’t worth you worrying.” Spence watched Billy, and even in the dark his smile was softer than Billy had ever seen it before. “Thank you.” Even as he reached out, fingers brushing Spence’s cheek, he half expected the other man to pull away. He knew the rules when it came to riding, when it came to horses. He knew what he had to do to get a result. But here the judges were ethereal things, and the points he could score or lose were less tangible. But Spence just closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, his fingers circling Billy’s wrist loosely. Spence made a soft sound when Billy leaned in to kiss him, sliding across the bench as far as he dared without encroaching too much on Spence’s space. The kiss was barely a skimmed touch, chaste and slow, lips clinging like velvet when he drew back slightly to gauge Spence’s reactions. He didn’t get that far. Spence’s free hand wound into his hair, keeping Billy locked in the kiss as his lips explored with playful little nibbles. For all that first kiss had been on his mind, the reality outshone the memory. He hadn’t remembered quite how soft Spence’s lips were, or quite how sweet he tasted. The martini had been a hindrance, he decided, if it camouflaged this heady, addictive taste.

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And Spence hadn’t kissed him back then with this kind of demanding hunger. Billy had felt his restraint the first time, but he was making up for it now, giving the need a free rein. One hand still flexed in Billy’s hair like a content kitten’s paw, the other slid up his chest, mapping blindly, memorizing the play of muscle beneath the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. Each touch felt like a brand, so electric Billy was certain he’d see marks if he peeled off the garment. He caught himself almost whimpering, before realizing he needed to take back control, regain command of the kiss before Spence seared away what was left of his composure. Pressing closer, lips slanted at a much more advantageous angle, he wound his arms around Spence’s waist, pinning the man back against the seat. Spence was having none of it. Catching Billy off guard with unassuming strength, he had the upper hand again before Billy could catch a breath. Still kissing deeply, tongue sliding and suckling in a mind-breaking mimicry of all the other things Billy wanted to do to him, Spence’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back. Any token protest Billy made was muffled and swallowed by the kiss, as Spence straddled his lap, growling softly as one knee hit the steering wheel on the way. Billy chuckled softly against Spence’s lips, reaching up to pluck the glasses from the bridge of Spence’s nose, making a pleased noise when the kiss no longer involved metal jabbing him in the face. Billy hadn’t expected Spence to be the aggressor, but damned if he didn’t like it. And he liked Spence’s hands in his hair far too much to demand help, even though his fingers were clumsy with want as he unfastened Spence’s pants, then his own. His jeans were rough and worn in patches, belt buckle gleaming and jangling. Spence’s pants were made of some soft, expensive fabric that slid beneath his fingers like liquid, tailored to the point that there must have been a jacket to match. They were like their owner, Billy mused, classy, and far too good for this. Spence made a keening noise against the kiss, lips trailing a feathery path along Billy’s jaw. “Please…” Funny how a word that should have been submissive and pleading sounded like a demand when Spence breathed it in a tone that sent shivers of need sparking through Billy’s blood. He almost faltered when Spence decided he wasn’t moving fast enough and nipped at the side of his neck. Hands trembling, he withdrew Spence’s arousal from its fabric confines, feeling it hot and heavy in his grasp. He stroked once, experimentally, his own erection twitching in longing sympathy. Hips snapping into the stroke, Spence cried out against the crook of his neck. Every inch of skin was hyper-sensitive, and Spence’s breath and the brush of those lips might as well have been direct contact with his cock, for the way it reacted. He needed contact, or Spence was going to have the dubious honor of being the first guy to make Billy come in his pants just by wriggling in his lap and nipping his neck.

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His own erection pressed so demandingly against the front of his pants, it needed the bare minimum of assistance from him to spring free. Spence had gone quiet and still against his shoulder, just breathing and shivering, anticipation crackling the air like static. Billy shifted his hips, and Spence moved against him, arousals sliding against each other, and it was like the gates exploded open on one of the craziest rides he’d ever ridden. Spence was satiny heat against him, hips rocking in a perfect rhythm, and Billy didn’t have to do much besides curl one hand around their erections. Spence’s wonderful inability to stay still did the rest. For a moment, all he could do was remember to breathe past the delicious friction, past an ache that felt so good it hurt. The addiction grew with every touch, until even that wasn’t quite enough. He plucked at as many buttons as it took to reveal some skin, needing to touch, needing to feel smooth heat beneath his palm. Spence’s shirt ended up open to the top two buttons, wrinkled and disheveled, skin peeking through like a teasing flash of lace and ribbon on a cathouse girl. He looked so breathtaking that way, as though Billy had stumbled across him in some private, intimate moment he had no real right to witness. Spence pulled away, head falling back, fingers combing through Billy’s hair before coming to rest at his shoulders. Leaning in, he brushed kisses and licks to Spence’s chest, judging the touches Spence enjoyed most by how hard those fingers dug into Billy’s shoulders, how erratic the slide of those hips became. Spence held on so tightly when Billy traced the tip of his tongue around the peaked nub of a nipple, he swore he was going to have bruises. A lot of things had bruised him in his time, but he found the thought of being marked by Spence strangely appealing. He smiled against Spence’s skin, feeling the heartbeat like thunder against his lips. When he looked up, it took a second to realize he’d never seen Spence without the glasses before. Without those stern angles, his face was softer, and without the mask of the glasses, he appeared so much younger, lips parted, eyes closed. He was beautiful, all rumpled, black hair and pale skin iridescent in the monochrome starlight. He arched into the touch as Billy skimmed callused fingertips down the smooth, flawless expanse of his chest, skin and muscle shivering in an echo of the caress. “Look at me…” He couldn’t manage the same level of authority to his demand as Spence could with a plea, but it didn’t matter. Blue eyes gleaming like a sapphire mine blinked open, watching him with unselfconscious desire, and in that moment, if he’d been given the choice between Spence and a sure ride in Vegas, he’d be at a loss which to choose. He matched Spence’s thrusts with a quick, loose stroke, free hand hooking onto Spence’s shirt-collar and tugging the man into another kiss. The pleasure thrashed and bucked

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through his senses, and every time he thought they’d done enough, it spiked higher, danced out of reach, until he was breathless with it, burning up and praying it would end, praying it would go on forever. Billy’s name was a gasp on Spence’s lips as he came, a word felt more than heard. Liquid heat trickled against his fingers, the tickling sensation and the smoother friction of his fingers triggering his own climax. He might have cried out Spence’s name, or any other interchangeable yell to every deity he’d ever heard of. He had no awareness beyond the white noise of his pulse in his head, and the shuddering release as the tension exploded through him. And then peace, a contentment he hadn’t felt in a long time. It almost made him want to wrap himself up in Spence’s arms and doze. Spence had other ideas there, too. He slid off Billy’s lap, cursing softly under his breath as he hit the same knee on the same edge of steering wheel, and spent several moments fastidiously tidying himself up, rearranging his clothes, closing zippers and buttons. Billy almost began considering the possibility that Spence wasn’t going to speak at all, that he was regretting every second of it, but eventually, once he deemed himself finished with the fussing, Spence leaned closer, head resting against Billy’s shoulder. Billy wound an arm around Spence’s shoulder, cheek resting against his hair, breathing in the clean scent of some fancy shampoo. Just when Billy was about to assume Spence was asleep, Spence turned a little in his arms, and asked, “What would you do, really, if it all fell through?” “What kinda question is that? I don’t know…the usual; raise horses on a tiny little ranch somewhere for no reason except to see fields full of them. Fish on weekends, sit on the front porch with a beer every night to watch the sun go down.” He chuckled, smiling against Spence’s hair. “Course I’d need to marry some rich, old man first.” Spence laughed, managing to sound suitably affronted at the same time. “I’m twenty nine, I’m hardly old!” “No, but you’re rich.” “My family’s rich.” Spence corrected him wryly. Billy shrugged, laughing softly. “Same thing.” “No…Not really.” His arms tightened a little around Spence, lips brushing a kiss to the side of that neck, soft, dark hair tickling his cheek as he nuzzled closer. “You know I’m kidding, right?” “About what, the money or the marriage?”

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“The marriage, obviously.” He grinned, tone as teasing as the lips that tickled against Spence’s ear. “I need to find a gentleman of substance, not some wild rodeo man.” “Hardly wild,” Spence murmured, head tilting slightly to accommodate the nibbling. “And anyway, your gentleman of substance would have to take a back seat to the rodeo. You’d never quit unless you had to.” He was glad Spence couldn’t see the wryness in his smile. “Yeah. A little horse ranch is a nice idea, but it’s just a fantasy. I’d go stir crazy in a half hour if that really was my life. I’ll bitch and whine about it ‘til the cows come home, but this is all I see myself doing. All I ever have seen.” He paused. “Kinda like you and always knowing you wanted to be a vet.” Spence was silent for a moment. “I was going to go into racing, something specialist, maybe even go back to Penn again someday.” He shrugged. “I had an internship lined up with one of my old professors, it was all mapped out.” There was a `but` coming, Billy knew that. Part of him wished he could bury his curiosity long enough to tell Spence it didn’t matter, here and now, but all he could muster was to hold the other man a little closer, wordless affection until Spence felt like continuing. “Long story short, he royally screwed me over, and my reputation in those circles isn’t worth the paper my doctorate was printed on.” “What happened? I mean, if you want to tell me…” “Which part would you like to know about?” Spence’s tone was artificially light, but he’d tensed in Billy’s arms. “The part where he passed off my research, my ideas, as his own and claimed I’d stolen his work? Or maybe the part where he happily let the rumors circulate that I’d more or less ingratiated myself into the internship by whatever means necessary.” “But you didn’t.” Spence pulled away, shifting back over to his side of the bench, arms folded across his chest, staring out of the window at the starry sky. “He knew I liked him. I mean, nothing would ever have come from it. He was married, he was straight…” Billy fought the possessive tension that threaded through him. “Did you love him?” “No…I don’t know, maybe. I worshipped him, which isn’t really the same thing. And he knew it. He had me eating out of one palm and was selling me out with the other. There wasn’t proof of anything, but the hearsay was enough. And of course no one believed me, I was just some newly qualified brat. Anyway…I wanted something as far away from that as I could get, literally and figuratively.”

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The air had become heavy, thick in a way that had nothing to do with the heat and musk. The couple of feet of pick-up front bench between them felt like a canyon, and even if he’d been any good at sympathy, he doubted it would be welcomed. Instead, he shrugged, sending Spence a cheeky grin. “So you’re slumming it, huh?” His words had the desired effect, as Spence’s gaze snapped toward him, affronted and a little haughty, like a cat that’d narrowly saved its tail from being stomped on by a threeton bull. “No!” “Ah, it doesn’t bother me none, if you ask me we have the perfect set-up here. We both get to do what we love, and hey, if it just so happens we get to do it at the same time, all the better.” Spence watched him for a moment, before acquiescing with a small smile. “Definitely a perk.” Billy reached across the seat, tugged Spence close in a quick, playful kiss. “Damn straight.” The kiss lingered longer than he’d intended, but Billy was hardly complaining. All in all, that was a good save. He let a thumb trail across Spence’s lower lip as he leaned back, glad those traces of bitterness were gone from those startling blue eyes. Spence inclined his head slightly into the touch, eyes closing. After a moment, he sighed softly. “I should be getting back, before they come looking for me. I’m sure there’s something I’ve done wrong in my absence…” “Ah, just tell them to go screw themselves.” Billy started the truck, swerving back out onto the road in a one-eighty sweep, and stopping there for a moment to fasten his pants, before speeding back toward town. Spence made a soft, little noise, one noncommittal syllable that translated to Billy’s ears as `but it’s not that simple`, and turned back to stare out of the window as neon and streetlight replaced the stars.

***

They fell into a comfortable routine over the next few weeks. Spence would spend a day and a half alternating between avoiding Cordell and arguing with him. Billy would show up like a dazzling break in a summer storm, performing better with every event that passed, and afterward they’d go somewhere to celebrate.

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At least, that was always the intention. It wasn’t all touching and necking like school kids dodging a curfew. Billy told him elaborate stories about the rodeo that became so animated the truck rocked without any involvement on Spence’s part. Sometimes Billy’d even try wringing some history from Spence, but all he could manage were tame stories about college, or that one horse that had almost bitten his ear off. He’d already shared more than he ever thought he could, this soon. It wasn’t Billy he didn’t trust, it was himself. His judgment of character was obviously so far off the scale, he could hardly rely on it anymore. That Billy tolerated it should have been indication enough that this time, Spence’s judgment wasn’t so wide of the mark. Billy was reining back as hard as he did when he rode; Spence wasn’t oblivious to that, but didn’t admit it and Billy didn’t push. He liked the odd status quo, but sometimes he wished Billy would, wished the responsibility if it all turned out to be a mistake was out of his hands. At least his work afforded a responsibility he enjoyed, much as Cordell got under his skin. Watching the horses happy as they competed, knowing he was responsible for keeping them happy, he could almost forget about the rest. The only time he could forget completely was when he was wrapped up in Billy’s arms. He’d been counting the hours ‘til he could be there again – far too many – while doing his morning check on the horses. The event was larger, and they were required to provide more animals, and his rounds were longer as a result. He almost missed the black colt, his presence registering almost as that of a ghost, or a UFO, something the brain couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t quite believe. He blinked once or twice, but no, the black colt was still there, peering curiously at him across the pen gate. “What’s this horse doing here?” He asked anyone close enough to listen. One of the stable hands nearby, carrying a bag of feed, barely stopped as he passed. “Gotta ask Cordell, he signed the papers.” “Goddamnit…” Cursing under his breath, hardly surprised that Cordell’s name was involved, he stepped into the pen, looking the colt over, in case he’d made a mistake. He didn’t want to see the white streak in the black mane, or the skewed crescent of white that seemed to bracket the freeze brand on the horse’s back. Last time he’d seen the horse, he’d been at the ranch’s treatment block, having pulled up lame in the paddock.

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That had been three days ago. He’d given no authorization for the horse to be included in the stock traveling to this event, let alone to compete. He showed good progress, but it was still too soon to allow the horse to risk a repeat injury from competition. That he’d been loaded into a trailer and transported might have been plenty to aggravate the injury. Spence was instructing the handlers to bring the trailer around, when Cordell interrupted him. “That won’t be necessary.” The handlers looked back and forth between them for a moment, before mistaking Spence’s speechlessness for permission to leave. “He needs an X-ray, he needs to be taken back and—“ “That’s ridiculous. The animal’s perfectly sound. Are you suggesting we drop one of our best horses on some little whim you have that he might be injured?” “No.” He shook his head. “No `might` about it. My professional opinion is that you withdraw this horse from the draw, or he could do serious, lasting damage. I know I can’t force you, but I’m here to oversee the welfare of these animals, and letting him compete tonight is not in his interest. It might be his last ride.” Cordell remained silent for a long moment, long enough that Spence began to hope he was finally listening, finally seeing that however much Spence irritated him, he was right about this. He should have known better. “We’ll see. Give him an hour or two to rest it.” “If he goes out there, he’s going to get hurt. Not only that, but he might very well hurt whoever’s unlucky enough to be on his back at the time. He can’t hold the weight.” “He looks fine to me.” “You’re not a vet.” “And you’re not in any position to tell me what to do, Mr. Quinn, you’d do well to remember that. You come here with your big-shot views and think you can run this company into the ground just because we don’t all bow and scrape at your `Oh I was at Penn!` ass?” Cordell growled. “Damage this company’s reputation again, Quinn, and it won’t just be your fancy racing circles that won’t touch you with a ten foot pole.” If Cordell had punched him in the face, Spence didn’t think he’d have reeled quite as hard. It wasn’t even the threat, it was that Cordell knew. Had gone out of his way to dig

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up whatever dirt he could. He must have been delighted when he realized Spence had enough dirt to plough an acre. He was still numb, still stunned when Cordell backed off triumphantly. “Cancel the trailer,” he barked at the handlers. “Get the local man to okay him for the draw, and if Mr. Quinn harasses you about it, come to me.” The handlers stared uneasily between the two, but Spence could hardly blame them for obeying Cordell’s instruction. He overruled Spence, whatever their opinions; if they wanted to keep their jobs, they kept in with Cordell. Spence watched the colt, blissfully unaware of the problems he’d created, not entirely certain any more if it was worth keeping this job if Cordell wasn’t listening anyway. *** In twenty-four years, Billy had never found anything that even came close to occupying the same sort of privileged position in his life as rodeo. Nothing else that made his heart pound with the knowledge that this thing, his fickle, ephemeral mistress called to him as surely as breathing, as unavoidable as blinking. He’d known he’d never marry, never settle down, even before he realized that his preferred partners wouldn’t be conducive to white weddings anyway. But more than that, no one he’d met had ever challenged that place in his blood, in his soul. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to sleep at night thinking of something other than the last ride, or woken up thinking of anything but the next. Until Spence. Until this one enigmatic creature that was so damn different, so far out of his league he shouldn’t even have been considering it. He’d never just sat and talked to anyone that way before. Granted, he was never usually with anyone long enough for deep, protracted conversations. Spence understood passion, understood something so deeply ingrained in blood it would never quite go away. He understood the difference between alone and lonely. Understood that guarded sort of trust that came hard and faded easy. Billy didn’t want whatever he’d done to make Spence comfortable around him to ever fade. Whatever influence Reed still had over his rides had to stop. It was better late than never, but he wasn’t going to give Spence a reason to distrust him. He was getting good results, his confidence was buoyant, and he was the best he’d been in a long time. And he could do it without anyone meddling behind the scenes. He hadn’t expected Reed to take it very well. “Are you shitting me? You’ve made more in the past month than you have in the last two years, and you want to stop, just like that?”

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“It’s not about the money—“ “The hell it isn’t! It’ll take you weeks just to break even with me, kid.” “You think I’m only winning ‘cause of the strings you’re pulling? I can do just as damned well without your help.” “Oh really? I’d like to see what gutter you’d be in now if it wasn’t for my `help`, ungrateful little shit.” “I can win this on my own.” Reed looked at him speculatively for a long time, as though he couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t quite summon any belief in Billy’s words. If it was intended to break him, it wasn’t going to work. The challenge of it was lighting his veins like they ran gasoline. “Fine.” Reed shrugged, the slight gesture conveying the disparaging sense that he was washing his hands of whatever became of Billy. “If that’s what you want.” Billy frowned. Reed had lied to him enough that he could smell it by now. And that one reeked of bullshit. “That easy?” “Jesus, I can’t fucking win with you, can I?” Reed shook his head. “I agree to your sorry shit for brains idea, even though I think it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done -- and lemme tell you kid, you’ve done a lot of stupid things -- and you still ain’t happy.” “It’s nothing to do with happy, it’s to do with not trusting you as far as I could get a horse to kick you.” “We’ll see, won’t we?” Reed shrugged. “We’ll wait and see how well you do, and then you can come yelling, one way or another. But don’t blame me if some dumb nag has you eating dirt before you’re even out of the chute.” “Yeah yeah…” Billy muttered, flipping off Reed’s retreating back, wishing he had the same conviction in his heart as he had in his words. “You’ll be eating something when I beat the shit out of everyone by myself.”

*** It felt like living in a time warp, in a living nightmare. He could so easily have been back six months, back in Pennsylvania. Back in incestuously cliquey racing circles, in stable yards and meetings where everyone looked at him as though he was an interesting specimen of an alien race, whispering in corners and falling into hushed silences whenever he appeared.

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News traveled fast, thanks to Cordell. Even if he hadn’t told the world at large every last detail of Spence’s faux pas, he’d made enough of a drama out of his irrationality to make everyone question Spence’s judgment. It was easier to fade into the background as the events began, and everyone was more occupied with their respective tasks than staring at Spence. He busied himself with more checks, more mindless things that he’d already done a dozen times, but at least they kept him from thinking. He could do that later, when there was no one around to catalog it for the next round of the rumor mill. He could do it when he could lose himself in Billy’s kisses, in the only thing he knew would never judge him. He wasn’t paying attention to the announcer, even though the crackly static reverberated through most of the arena. It was as pervasive as the rest of the background noise, nothing to listen to, he just became used to it. At least until the announcer called out Billy’s name, and declared that tonight, he was riding the black colt. He barely realized he was moving, only aware of it when he found himself striding toward the ring, elbowing past anyone in his way. If he could just get the ride stopped, they’d have to offer Billy a re-ride, he wouldn’t lose out. In theory. Maybe the break in concentration would be enough, and Billy would resent him for wrecking his chances, however well intentioned Spence’s actions would be. Maybe the horse would be okay. His deliberating proved moot; he got to the edge of the ring just as the chute gate opened. One second, two seconds… The horse seemed fine, muscles rippling smoothly under a glossy coat beneath the spotlights. The rider, though, captivated Spence’s attention. He’d seen Billy ride before, but only in stolen glances from afar, when he was nothing more than a blur, whipping around the ring. Three seconds, four seconds… He’d never consciously watched before. Never seen the fluid grace, the way time almost slowed to a crawl, every movement of the perfectly attuned horse and rider delineated like time-lapse photography. It always looked so violent from a distance; up close it bore more resemblance to a choreographed dance than a street brawl. Five seconds, six seconds…

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He’d been watching Billy so raptly he’d forgotten to watch the colt. So captivated by the mesmerizing rhythm, it was only the break in that rhythm that snapped him out of the trance. Landing from a clean, high buck, the colt just kept going, his right hind leg buckling under his weight as if it was made from foam. Even though he was preparing for the next buck, Billy tried to react, tried to counterbalance. But the horse was going down, and they both had too much momentum to stop it. The colt went down in a flail of kicks and pained whinnying. From his vantage point, Spence couldn’t tell if Billy had been able to disentangle himself from the rein and saddle, whether he’d been able to move out from beneath the dead weight of the horse as he fell. The crowd let out a collective gasp that would have been funny if it wasn’t real, if it wasn’t happening right before him. If it wasn’t Billy. The colt got to his feet unsteadily, hind leg raised gingerly off the ground, hobbling as best he could until the pickup man caught his rein, steadying him with soothing tones. He’d never been torn before, never had two places he needed to be. He wanted to attend to the horse; it was his job, it was second nature and always had been. Tonight, it wasn’t to the horse that his heart wanted to go. He felt invisible suddenly, amid the chaos, as the handlers and the pickup men and the first aid techs swarmed into the ring. The crowd jeered for things to move on, and over the crackly PA, the announcer tried to placate them. It was noise and dust and the heat of the spotlights, and for a moment he felt disembodied, as though he was going to faint. It was his fault. The colt was hurt, Billy was hurt, and it was Spence’s fault. He might have stood there for eternity, if one of the pickup men hadn’t strode up to him. “Are you the vet?” “I—“ The man kept speaking, and some instinctive part of Spence heard him, followed mutely. The men were barking demands and questions at him, and he tried snapping himself out of the daze long enough to pay attention. Billy was getting help, he was the only help for the horse. The horse that might very well have seriously hurt his lover. For that moment, Spence hated the animal almost as much as he hated himself.

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“Easy, easy…” He took the rein from the handler, keeping the colt’s head close and still. None of the stock were fazed by crowds and noise, but the tension was palpably affecting the animal as he tossed his head, yanking the rein, pulling Spence off balance. After a moment of hushed nonsense, though, he calmed, attention slowly focusing on Spence instead of the things around him. “Bring around the horse box,” he instructed the closest handler, tone just as soft and measured. “I want it as close as you can get it, the less he has to move the better.” The man left to comply with the order, and with less distraction he could turn his focus back to Billy. The fear faded several notches. Billy was sitting up, looking disgruntled at the fussing of the medics. He scowled and blinked as they shone lights in his eyes, shaking his head negatively at whatever they asked. He was cradling one arm, while one of the medics poked and prodded at his right shoulder. “Ow, shit…” He heard the expletive even from his position, and the relief that Billy was still, well, Billy, was tempered by the obvious pain in the hissed words. He might as well have done that himself, responsible as he was. If he’d stood his ground, if he’d stood up to Cordell instead of letting the raked over past stun him like a rabbit in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler, this would never have happened. “The box is here.” The handler returned, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the horse trailer as it backed up to the edge of the ring. The colt argued every inch of the way, but eventually he was loaded up, tethered as still and secure in the narrow box as he could be. “Take him back to his pen, I’ll be with you in a second.” The horse box left, just as the medics did the same, though he felt a pang of fear about approaching Billy at all. He was on his feet, muttering softly and knocking out a dent in his hat that had been trampled in the melee. “Are you all right?” “I’ll live.” Billy must have caught the terror in his pained expression, adding hurriedly, “I’m fine.” “I’ll have to go and see to him…” “That’s fine.” Billy nodded. “Ain’t going anywhere in a hurry. I’ll watch the rest of the competition.”

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“Aren’t you getting a re-ride?” Billy shook his head, looking a little wistful as the event restarted, the next rider climbing into the chute. “Nah, I’m gonna sit this one out.” The handlers called him again, and Spence hurried toward the stabling area. When he turned, Billy was leaning against the rails, still guarding that right shoulder, watching the rest of the competitors with a longing expression that almost broke Spence’s heart.

***

Once the medics declared there wasn’t much permanently wrong with him besides a big mouth and an ego problem, they left Billy alone with a handful of aspirin and his thoughts. They’d look into the incident, he was certain, and they’d figure it all out. He was screwed, all and truly, just to add insult to injury. Worse than that, Spence would know. He couldn’t keep the worry in those blue eyes from his mind, the way Spence had looked at him, anxiety fading to relief when he realized things weren’t as bad as they seemed. He’d never been in that position before. He’d never had anyone worried about him. He’d never seen anyone worried about his dad, and he didn’t know enough at the time to be concerned. He’d barely begun competing when his dad died, and ever since, he’d been alone. All Reed worried about was getting results, making money. The people he picked up in bars didn’t come to watch him ride, didn’t watch him with concern in their eyes. Nothing he’d done, or more importantly, not done, was because of Spence, but he couldn’t shake the sense of betrayal. Spence would take learning of Billy’s lies as a reflection on himself, as another error of judgment. If he could take things back, if he’d known Spence back then the way he did now, he’d never have given Reed permission to screw around like this. If he could, he’d change everything. He was tempted a hundred times over to leave before Spence was done. The bruises hurt, but the thought of Spence coming back to him with cold accusation in his eyes made him feel nauseous. When he did show up, Spence just looked weary. “You waited for me? You should have gone home to rest, Billy…” He shrugged, wincing at the shockwave of pain that tingled down his arm. “I wanted to wait, and besides, I’m fine. How’s the horse?”

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“No permanent damage, I don’t think. He’ll go back tonight and they’ll run some scans and tests in the morning, we’ll know more then.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it in disheveled tufts of black silk. “He might be going out to stud a little earlier than he expected…” Billy smiled wryly. “Lucky bastard, all I got was a couple of painkillers.” “Yeah…” Spence looked around distractedly, and Billy got the feeling that he could tell Spence anything in that moment and he wouldn’t register a thing. “Can we get out of here?” He nodded, unable to keep from reaching out, letting his fingers graze Spence’s arm. “Yeah…” They left the arena in silence, and the drive was just as quiet. Billy had no idea what to say, and Spence just didn’t want to talk. He doubted a bar was a good idea tonight, and neither was sitting in this truck on a back road. The sitting part was fine, but his body was protesting at the thought of being unable to stretch out, rest somewhere more comfortable. He’d never taken anyone back to the trailer before. It was his space, somewhere he didn’t have to worry about anything, didn’t have to worry about rides, or what other people thought of him. He’d worry about that anywhere he went tonight. Spence seemed a little surprised when Billy drew the truck up next to the trailer, though Billy couldn’t tell whether it was because he hadn’t expected it, or that he hadn’t expected it to look quite as good as it did. It should look good, it was all he had to show for any money he’d ever made. And it was home. So he’d splurged a little, especially since he didn’t even own a horse anymore, but he liked his comforts, and the trailer was certainly that. It was a little more cramped with two people, as he found after unlocking the door and ushering Spence up the steps. Billy watched Spence as he gazed around the room. “This is…nice.” “What were you expecting?” Billy laughed softly. “A hammock and a gas ring?” “Well, no, but…” He followed Spence’s gaze as it traveled from the leather couch beneath one window to the neat lines of the oak cabinets that hid the detritus of Billy’s life: clothes and books and god alone knew what other junk he’d accumulated. There

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wasn’t a gas ring, there was a fully working kitchen on the opposite wall to the couch, complete with freezer, microwave, and coffee machine. And there wasn’t a hammock. Up one step that doubled as a seat, the king-sized bed sat on a shelf above the part of the trailer that attached to the truck bed. There was a mirror behind the headboard, though not out of Billy’s vanity, just to create the illusion of space. It was matched by the mirrors on the bathroom door at the other end of the trailer. “Want a coffee or anything?” “I’m okay.” Spence shook his head. “Okay…” Billy nodded. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Make yourself at home. TV’s there, sound system’s there, and the fridge is over there. Want something, go right ahead.” “Thanks.” The mirrors and fluorescent light of the small bathroom weren’t kind to the bruises and scrapes as Billy undressed slowly. His right shoulder was turning a very fetching shade of eggplant purple, and he could barely lift his arm enough to shrug off his shirt. His rein hand. He’d be hurting for a couple of weeks from that. It wasn’t the first time, but it hadn’t been this bad in a long time. Something had even dented his hat, he noticed ruefully, setting it down on top of the untidy pile of clothes. The heat of the shower pounded each bruise into a dull ache, stung each scrape until he couldn’t feel them anymore. The more he could relax the muscles now, the less painful they’d be when they seized up later. He wasn’t looking forward to taking half an hour to get out of bed in the morning. Not unless Spence was planning on staying, anyway, and somehow Billy doubted that. Spence was sitting on the couch when Billy stepped out of the bathroom in a billow of steam, perched on the edge as though he hadn’t wanted to make himself very comfortable. He’d taken off his glasses, but only to facilitate rubbing his temples as though warding off a headache. Billy sighed softly, toweling his hair into a rumpled mess of dark gold as he watched, waiting. Blue eyes went very wide when they looked up at him, and it occurred to him that standing there in just a towel, bruises like beacons, wasn’t exactly the most tactful thing he could have done. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go to the emergency room?” “I’m fine, the medics said it’s nothing. They see ten times worse than this every week, they know what they’re doing.” He smiled a little, trying to reassure.

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Spence watched him dubiously, before looking away, studying the carpet instead. When he spoke, Billy had to strain to catch the words, as quiet as they were. “I’m sorry, Billy, all this…it’s all my fault.” “Hey, hey…” He knelt in front of Spence, reaching out, grasping him by the shoulders. His own shoulder protested, but Billy ignored it. He had to. “I’m fine. See? No harm done. I’ve had worse, this’ll fade in a couple days…” “But I told them, they knew I wasn’t happy with him going into the draw.” “So how is it your fault, huh? Short of marching him outta the arena, what more could you have done?” “Something. There must have been something.” Spence argued stubbornly, and the look in his eyes kicked Billy square in the heart. “Why am I here, if they just disregard every word I say? The buck stops with me, Billy. This time, literally.” He couldn’t take seeing that expression any longer, pulling Spence into his arms instead. If he didn’t have to look at that hurt, that bewilderment, then he might be able to keep it together. And most of all, he didn’t want to have to see the look in Spence’s eyes if he admitted to the things he knew, confessed to his suspicions. His ignorance wouldn’t wash, and rightly so. He was responsible for this, for the hurt he could feel in the way Spence held onto him, fingers balled tightly into fists. “If something had happened—“ “It didn’t. Besides, it’s a risk I’m willing to take every time I ride.” Spence drew back, looked down at him. “But…I don’t know if I am.” “Don’t say that…” He brushed his fingertips against Spence’s cheek, the touch a plea and a poor reassurance. “Please. It’s not your fault, Spence, please don’t say that.” “Billy…” Spence shook his head helplessly, but Billy didn’t give him the opportunity to finish whatever he was going to say, silencing the argument with a hard, desperate kiss. Spence didn’t seem to mind, melting into the kiss, arms winding around Billy’s shoulders, the embrace a heady combination of pleasure and pain. At least he could show the pleasure; the pain he’d bite back for Spence’s sake. He stood, not breaking the kiss as he pulled Spence up with him. The towel fell, his body pressed against Spence, bare skin against cloth. Spence moved against him, hands sliding down Billy’s back, gentle and careful, fingers tickling the small of his back before

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lowering to cup his ass, pressing Billy tighter against himself. Billy’s erection strained against Spence’s clothed arousal, nudging demandingly against the taut fabric. When the contact broke suddenly, he raged against the loss for a split second, before he realized why. Spence dropped to his knees, hands still cradling Billy’s ass, cheek pressed against the hollow of his hipbone, just nuzzling. “Spence…” “Hmm?” He wasn’t sure if it was a question, a reply, or just a content purred noise, but either way, the breath ghosted across the heated flesh of his cock, like a brush of silk. It twitched pleadingly, inches from Spence’s lips, straining as though it wished it could bend and curl to seek contact. Spence smiled softly, glancing up at Billy before taking pity on him. The one long lick from root to tip made his knees so unsteady, he had to step back, finding balance by leaning against the cupboards behind him. Spence followed wordlessly, repeating the lick in the other direction, parted lips pressing open mouthed kisses along the length of his shaft, teeth scraping the skin lightly. Pain receded to a background buzz as Spence’s fingers kneaded his ass, lips pressing a kiss to the tip of his arousal, parting around the head and suckling hard and purposeful. One hand slid over his hip to run across the shivering muscles of his stomach and chest, then back down to tighten around the base of his arousal. Usually, Billy didn’t much care who was in charge, as long as he got laid one way or another. Spence’s need for control drove him crazy, made him want more than he could ever remember. His head smacked back against the cupboard door, but he barely felt it. All Billy could feel was the squeeze of Spence’s fingers, the warm wetness of his mouth, the knowing sweeps of his tongue, the soft friction of his lips. Billy’s fingers tangled in Spence’s hair, making no attempt to direct or control, he just needed to hang onto something. Spence didn’t need any directing. If he’d canvassed the opinions of all Billy’s old lovers, he wouldn’t be this right, this instinctive. He had a map of all the places that made Billy moan, and was intent on taking the meandering, scenic route. The bitten back cry of Spence’s name was about all he could muster as warning when it took twice as much effort just to stay standing through the onslaught of sensation. Spence took his time pulling back, fingers replacing his lips for the last few strokes, kisses feathering across Billy’s stomach, riding out the jerking and shuddering of Billy’s hips as he came.

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It took a moment to catch his breath, heart still hammering in his chest as he drew Spence up into a kiss, licking at those lips, moaning softly. Spence remained subdued in his arms as Billy undressed him, slow by necessity, lingering by choice. His kisses followed the path of the fabric as he peeled back Spence’s shirt, lips pressing butterfly kisses along the curve of Spence’s neck as he let the shirt slide from Spence’s shoulders. Spence shivered at the caress of the material, pressing closer, and Billy breathed a gasp at the electric touch of skin against skin. Arms looped around his neck, Spence nuzzled kisses to his jaw as Billy unfastened Spence’s pants. The garment fell with a shush, pooling around Spence’s ankles, and he stepped away just long enough to kick them off carelessly. Fingers entwining loosely with Spence’s, he backed up the step to sit on the edge of the bed. Headroom was at a premium, especially when Spence was only a breath shorter than he was, but Billy didn’t plan on either of them staying vertical very long. Spence followed him, predatory and shy all at once, and Billy swore that juxtaposition of control and need would be his undoing. If he wasn’t completely unraveled already. He scooted back on the bed, taking his time to appreciate the beauty of the enigmatic creature before him. Spence was built like an Arabian horse, eyes intense and dark without the glasses, and broad shoulders tapering to non-existent hips. Skin that had looked like alabaster in starlight was just as flawless in the dim light, and Billy wondered for a moment what Spence made of him. He knew he kept himself in shape, but he also knew tonight’s marks weren’t the only ones decorating his body from years of falling off horses and the odd fight or three. He sucked in a breath as Spence stalked onto the bed, leaning over him, head lowering to nuzzle the juncture of Billy’s thigh, licking at the satin soft skin. Whatever Spence made of him, if it yielded that kind of reverence, Billy was happy. Spence shifted higher, and Billy instinctively parted his legs a little further to allow his lover room. His lover. He liked the sound of that. Bending his knees slightly, thighs sliding against Spence’s, he wrapped his good arm around Spence’s shoulders, the other hand stroking Spence’s chest. Arching up into a kiss, fingers scissoring around a pebbled nipple, rolling and teasing the nub, he smiled against Spence’s lips as his lover whimpered. He’d never known anyone quite that sensitive before, and he couldn’t resist leaning up slightly, pushing Spence back just enough to lower his lips to the other nipple, laving the skin, feeling it tighten beneath his tongue. Whimpers becoming more desperate, Spence moved restlessly above him, straining arousal smearing slick patterns against Billy’s stomach. His body responded again to the contact, hips raised, cock hardening again to nudge against Spence’s in a hot, wet kiss. Teeth grazing the nipple in between licks, he reached down, fingertips brushing the length of Spence’s erection before curling his fingers around the feverish flesh.

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The whimpers turned to a choked gasp at that touch, Spence’s body tense and still above his. Billy chuckled softly as he glanced up, seeing those eyes squeezed tightly shut, every muscle in Spence’s body fighting the urge to explode. If Spence liked restraint, far be it from Billy to deny him that. Grinning against his lover’s chest, he nipped sharply with his teeth, not giving that sensation a chance to register before swiping his thumb across the head of Spence’s cock. The moisture beaded against his fingers as the hard heat jerked in his grasp, and Spence wasn’t making any noises now, just quick, shallow breaths, shoulders trembling as they braced above him. He had to strain to hear the words, lost as they were in the gasps. “Not…not like that…” Billy laid back, looking up at Spence with a wicked grin. “Think you can take me?” He leaned up a little, running a lick along the column of Spence’s throat. “Gonna fuck me, college boy?” Spence growled, either at the lick or at the nickname, Billy wasn’t sure. But he was damn well sure that this man was going to drive him crazy, when those blue eyes opened, staring down at him, lust-dark and intense. “Yeah…” He kept the lube and condoms in a narrow drawer next to the bed. Normally that wasn’t an issue, but when he couldn’t twist his right arm that far back to reach the damn things, even things he took for granted were difficult. Fortunately, Spence was still coherent enough to pay attention when Billy waved vaguely at the drawer, murmuring breathlessly, “In there…” Spence got the idea, barely letting go as he retrieved what he needed, and Billy had to admit there was a thrill in not being the one who had to do everything. Especially with as purposeful a lover as Spence was turning out to be, as serious in this as he was in everything else. He sucked in a breath at the cold shock of the gel, but if Spence had waited for it to warm up, Billy might well have kicked him. Impatience and need trampled over everything else, and after a moment the cold was gone, replaced by the exploratory warmth of Spence’s fingers. He tried pressing down, tried driving the teasing, inquisitive fingers deeper, but Spence moved just out of reach every time he tried, intent on taking it at his own pace. That would have been fine and dandy, except that Spence’s pace was probably going to kill him. Shallow, almost playful thrusts stretched and massaged the gel into the tight entrance, but Billy would have forgone the niceties of slow preparation in favor of the need to be completed, filled, made whole. And by this man, nothing else would compare to it. It should have worried him, but all it did was make him want Spence all the more.

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He squirmed impatiently, making little noises of frustration at the thought Spence could carry on like this all night. Talented as his fingers were, Billy wanted more than that. “Enough…already. Not gonna…break..!” “I know.” Spence leaned down, the gentlest of kisses grazing Billy’s shoulder, velvet against the pounding bruise. The only ache that was more exquisite than that touch flooded his senses as Spence positioned the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle, and pushed. He hissed at the welcome intrusion, and Spence hesitated briefly. Billy tilted his hips, arching up until the angle of his lover inside him made him cry out, making it as clear as he could without words that he had no argument with this at all. It had been a while, there’d been no one else ever since he met Spence, but he was reacting like he hadn’t been touched in years. Then Spence began to move, and Billy found himself reconsidering whether he’d break; it sure as hell felt as though he was shattering into a million glittering pieces. He’d spent nights in this trailer while a gulf coast storm buffeted it, and he doubted it really would rock too suspiciously. Even if it did, he’d be proud for the entire world to know this cowboy had certainly gotten his man. There wasn’t as much heat and static in that storm either. He wound his arms around Spence as his lover settled against him, falling into a perfect rhythm, heels digging into Spence’s hips, spurring the thrusts on, harder, faster, deeper. His arousal throbbed with the friction as it was pinned between their bodies. Every brush of Spence’s hands against his skin felt like a match struck on a dry prairie, leaving crackling sparks in its wake, and each graze of those lips was like a rain shower, soothing and sweet. Spence kept making those whimpered noises, sounds that might as well have been tangible in the way they curled around Billy’s senses, sensual as fur. A flare of pain shot through his shoulder every time his fingers clamped reflexively on Spence’s arms, but it wasn’t enough to make him stop. Nothing short of a tornado the likes of which even Dorothy hadn’t seen would make him stop now. He could gauge how close Spence was getting by those noises too, by the desperate, little hitches, breathless moans muffled and vibrating against the crook of Billy’s neck. Every erratic thrust hit its target with unerring accuracy, making lightning flash behind Billy’s eyes, body snapping with the thrummed current. He clung to Spence, pleasure overriding everything else, as his lover thrust deep, tensing above him, pale skin glittering, muscles coiled tight before it all unraveled in a shudder that rocked through them both. Body tightening reflexively around Spence, Billy rocked

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against him as he moved urgently, seeking out his own climax in the slick friction, awareness exploding in heat and starburst. And then Billy was just free-falling, without a care about where he’d land. In the stillness that followed, Spence lay against him, breathing in quick, quiet gasps, Billy’s fingers threaded loosely in mussed, black hair, holding on, boneless and content. Spence raised his head after a while, pressing a sweet kiss to the side of Billy’s neck, and shifting his weight a little when he realized he was leaning heavily on Billy’s bruised shoulder. “Sorry…” Billy laughed softly, lips against Spence’s hair, eyes closed, inhaling his scent. He had to imprint everything about this man, this moment, on his memory. “I don’t want you ever saying sorry to me again. Ever. You ain’t got a thing to be sorry about.” Spence murmured a half-hearted protest, but Billy silenced him with a kiss. Well, it worked last time, and thankfully Spence hadn’t learned since. But Billy had. He’d learned what he was going to lose if he didn’t fix things. He’d worry about that later, though, as Spence curled into his arms again, lost in the kiss. Right now, he just wanted to savor every second of this that he was allowed. If he had his way, he smiled against Spence’s lips, he’d be allowed for a very long time.

*** The showgrounds were quiet when Billy dropped him off in the parking lot. Only the trash and detritus of the night before betrayed the fact that anything had gone on here at all. Monday morning, when the rest of the working week began, and their world was quiet. His car was one of the few vehicles left in the lot. The colt should have been back at the company’s ranch by now, and all that remained was for Spence to drive back and decide what the results of the scans would mean for the animal. “Are you okay to drive, with your shoulder?” “It’s a lot better this morning.” Billy flexed it experimentally, then grinned wickedly. “I think it had some damn fine medical attention last night.” Spence laughed softly. “Really unorthodox treatment. But if it helped…” “More than helped.”

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“Good…” He smiled a little, leaning across the seat to brush a kiss to Billy’s cheek. Billy turned his head, catching the chaste kiss and deepening it to something a little less innocent. Billy reached for his hand as the kiss ended, letting their fingers intertwine. “I miss you already and you ain’t gone yet.” “Yeah…” Spence lifted their locked hands, brushed a kiss to Billy’s fingers, before releasing. If he didn’t let go now, he’d never get out of the truck. “But I’ll see you Friday, okay?” Billy watched him open the door and slide out of the seat, tipping his hat in mock salute. “Yes, sir.” He watched Billy drive off, wishing he could run after him, make him stop, postpone this for just a while longer. Cordell’s car was still there, and ill-advised as it might have been, Spence couldn’t leave without at least speaking to him about last night’s events. He wasn’t going to start an argument, but if that was the way proceedings went, at least there weren’t many witnesses around this time. He slowed as he approached the cabin that served as Cordell’s makeshift office over the weekend. He wasn’t much for eavesdropping, but he couldn’t help hearing the raised voices from inside the office, and there was a slight satisfaction in the knowledge someone else was as irritated by Cordell as he was. “I don’t care if he wants to quit,” Cordell was saying. “For all we’ve put on the line, you damn well change his mind.” “You don’t think I tried?” The other man replied. “Little, ungrateful bastard won’t budge.” “Not my problem, Reed. I have plenty of my own, he’s your mess to clean up. If he talks—“ “He won’t. He’s got more to lose than we do.” “But he’s got a big mouth, too. It’ll get him in trouble one of these days, and us with it. Don’t let that happen, do you understand?” Spence backed away from the door as the conversation ended. The man that exited the office, not even glancing his way as he left, looked vaguely familiar, but Spence couldn’t place him.

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“Here to be a smug, little shit, Quinn?” Cordell’s voice startled him. “No.” Spence shook his head. “Just to let you know I’m going over to the ranch now. We’ll know how he’s doing by the end of the day, most probably. It’ll be easier to make a prognosis when he’s had the scans. Though if you’d listened to me, he wouldn’t be in that position at all.” “Let me know what you find out.” Cordell ignored his comment, busying himself around the office. He looked up after a moment, as though he was surprised to find Spence still there. “Was there something else?” “Who was that man just now?” Cordell looked remarkably uncomfortable at that question, more so than anything Spence could have said about the colt. He shrugged evasively. “Kenny Reed. He looks after the guy that got hurt last night. Wanted to talk about what happened, I guess, to see if he could pin any blame on us.” Spence stopped listening after `the guy that got hurt last night`. He was replaying the conversation he’d overheard, adding in the knowledge that it was Billy they were discussing. Billy hadn’t told him about this, and despite acknowledging that Billy wasn’t under any obligation to tell him a damn thing, Spence wondered why. Whatever he’d chosen to omit from their lengthy conversations tied in with the reasons Cordell was lying through his teeth, and that left Spence uneasy. “Why does he think we’re responsible?” he asked carefully. “Oh, I don’t know,” Cordell looked at him. “Maybe because our horse nearly killed his guy.” “The horse I told you shouldn’t compete.” Spence’s disquiet settled in the back of his mind like a cold mantle. The pieces refused to fit together, despite an unsettling awareness that they should have. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve undermined me that way, and not the first time it’s because of the same competitor…” “Really?” Cordell sounded nonplussed. “I wouldn’t notice, Quinn, it’s enough that I have to pay attention to your screw-ups. I don’t care about some kid.” “You sounded like `some kid` mattered a hell of a lot.” “Were you listening to a private conversation?”

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Spence ignored that. The fragments were slotting together, and he didn’t think he wanted to see what picture they made. “Did you deliberately want to give him an injured horse?” “That’s ridiculous, Quinn, and if I were you I’d stop asking ludicrous questions—“ “No…” He began, not sure whom he was speaking to anymore. “You promised that man certain horses, didn’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t withdraw them when I told you to.” “Are you accusing me, Quinn?” Cordell snorted derisively. “I could have you fired in a heartbeat just for suggesting something so stupid.” “No, you wouldn’t.” Spence felt oddly detached, like he was floating. Or falling. “You’ve put enough on the line, isn’t that what you said?” Cordell looked at him coldly. “And I’ve been with this company longer than you’ve been out of diapers, Quinn. Who do you think they’ll believe? Me or some kid who doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to morally underhanded methods?” Spence didn’t care about the threat. He didn’t even care about the job anymore either. Whatever sense he had left was consumed by the realization that Billy had lied to him. Not just lied, but let him believe it had all been his fault. Billy had sat back and let Spence detest himself for the accident, when he’d known all along that Reed and Cordell had engineered for that horse to be included in the draw. Nothing Spence could have done would have changed it. He’d known. While they’d kissed, while they’d made love, while he whispered all those sweet, tender things, Billy had known none of this was Spence’s responsibility, and had let it eat him up anyway. “Welcome to the real world, Quinn.” Cordell shrugged brusquely. “Wouldn’t have though this stuff would exactly bother you.” “Whatever you believe is up to you…” Spence needed to leave, right now. He needed to be out of the office where the walls felt as though they were closing in, away from everything that reminded him of Billy. His voice was soft, as though it drifted through a haze. Cordell didn’t seem to notice, barely watching as Spence turned for the door, resisting the urge to grasp the doorframe to keep his knees from buckling. “I know I never lied to anyone.” Which is more than I can say for you, Billy…

***

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Billy hadn’t come down from his high ‘til sometime Wednesday afternoon. When the crash hit that it was several days since he’d seen Spence, and several days before he could do so again. The past two days had dragged harder than Billy had ever known. It was a sweet kind of torture, though. Spence better not have any plans for after the weekend. Billy wasn’t letting him drive away again. He wouldn’t have done so last weekend, were it not for that damned horse. He wondered now and then how the colt fared, but it was all tangled up with Reed’s lies and losing out on that ride and the guilt at Spence’s concern. This weekend would be different; it would be a clean slate. His shoulder didn’t feel completely healed, but he couldn’t afford to skip this event, impatient to prove himself. What were a few seconds of pain compared to getting his pride, his dignity back? He thought he’d caught sight of Spence when he arrived at the county fairgrounds where the rodeo would take place, but he was gone in a swarm of people and Billy couldn’t be certain. Besides, Spence would hardly be avoiding him, not after last weekend. “Guess it’s too much to ask that you’ve changed your mind?” He’d been leaning against the rails, watching the team ropers practice, when Reed found him. He turned to the older man, raised a brow. “Guess it’s too much to ask that you respect anything I ask?” Reed backed against the rails, arms across his chest. “You’re a fool, kid.” “Maybe.” He watched the ropers in silence until Reed asked, “How’s the shoulder?” “Fine. But you’re just gonna tell me it’s all I deserve for taking my chances with the draw.” The silence dragged on, and when Billy turned to look at him, Reed was making a point of looking anywhere but at him. “You didn’t listen to me, did you? You rigged it anyway.” “Billy—“ “You lying, sorry piece of shit!” His raised voice attracted some attention, but Billy didn’t care. “Why, huh? You have that little respect for me that you don’t care what I choose?” “Respect?” Reed scoffed. “The hell do you know about respect, kid, huh? Didn’t hear you complaining when you were raking it in.”

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“And that’s all you care about, isn’t it? Fine.” He levered away from the rails. “I’ll make it easy for you. It won’t matter to you if I win or lose, ‘cause this arrangement is over. I’m through.” “Don’t be stupid.” Reed began dismissively. “Stupid?” Billy scowled. “I think this is the smartest thing I’ve done in a long time. I don’t want your money, or your lies. I don’t want anything from you anymore.” “Just like that? All the years I’ve backed you and—“ “The hell do you care? I’m only gonna lose you money now I’m playing it honestly.” “You’ll regret this, Valentine,” Reed snarled. “No one’ll touch you if they know—“ “Yeah well, that works both ways, don’t it?” Reed stepped up to him, getting into Billy’s space, watching him silently for a long moment, before speaking low. “You’ll be a pathetic loser, Valentine. Just like your Daddy.” Billy watched him walk away, not entirely sure how to feel. Free, of course, and relieved, but he’d never quite felt this alone, either. This was the first time since he buried his dad that he hadn’t had somebody around, somebody watching his back – or pretending to. No one cared anymore if he existed or not. At least there was Spence, he figured. He couldn’t say now that Spence would be around for a long time, but he’d like it if he was. He didn’t care to wait around for the draw, not when it didn’t matter which horse he got. He needed Spence’s reassurance, not the uneasy emptiness of his thoughts. He knew Spence was working, and promised himself he wouldn’t get in the way; he just wanted to be in Spence’s company, to soak in that calm, strong presence. Billy watched Spence from afar for a long time, smiling a little at the stoic professionalism that emanated from him, that seeped into every movement, every look. Nothing seemed to bother him, nothing seemed to change that stony expression. It took several moments to realize there was something not quite right about that look, that it wasn’t stony, but blank. Perhaps the horse hadn’t fared as well as Spence hoped. He certainly looked in the kind of numb trance that spoke of some kind of loss. When there was a lull in proceedings, he approached Spence, smiling gently, tone undemanding. “Hey…”

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Spence took one look at Billy, turned on his heel and walked away. But not before that blankness in his gaze turned into unfettered betrayal. He knew. Billy didn’t know how, maybe Reed had made good on his threats far sooner than he’d imagined, but there was nothing else that would make Spence look at him like that. Shaking himself out of the daze, Billy hurried after Spence, fighting the cold fear tensing in his chest. “Spence, wait…” “Leave me alone.” “Just let me explain, okay? Please…” “Explain?” Spence wheeled around abruptly, and Billy had to pull up to avoid crashing into him. Somehow he doubted his touch would be welcome now. “Sure! Explain to me why you lied, why you cheated, why you let me feel that way. I thought you were hurt because of me, Billy. And you let me believe that. Was it fun, huh? Watching me fall for all your bullshit?” “It wasn’t like that; I’d never have hurt you I swear…” “You knew I was beating myself up, but you got hurt because you’re a lying, greedy asshole.” Spence glared at him, body thrumming with hurt. “You lied to me from the start. You and Cordell. I hope I gave you all a fucking laugh, Billy, I really do…” He began striding away again, leaving Billy staring, stunned. “I never lied to you.” “Then why did you let me take the responsibility, Billy? How could you say all those things and know that?” Billy took off his hat, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I was stupid, I was in over my head…I was so fucking scared you’d do exactly what you’re doing now and not listen to me.” Spence turned. “Give me one good reason why I should, Billy?” Because I never want you to walk away. He couldn’t say that, not here, not now, not like this. And there really wasn’t another reason. Fear and ego and loneliness weren’t good enough for him, they wouldn’t be for Spence either.

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So he said nothing. Spence looked at him sadly, blue eyes bright with hurt, and laughed humorlessly. “I thought so.” “Spence—“ “Please, Billy, just…leave me alone. I can’t deal with this right now.” It was all he deserved. It was everything he’d feared it would be. But he’d never thought it would hurt quite this much. There was an emptiness yawning inside him that he hadn’t felt since his dad died, but this time he had to reconcile it with the bitter knowledge that he’d done this to himself. He’d driven Spence away, and no amount of excuses would change things. In that moment, he’d give every ride he’d ever won, every ride he might win, just to go back and ride this one differently. Watching Spence walk away, it hit him that this ride only had one go-round. And he’d just blown it.

* * *

Jacob Diamond looked up from behind an oak desk big enough to land a small aircraft, and sighed. “I wish you’d reconsider.” “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve given this a lot of thought…” “I don’t doubt that, son.” Jacob sighed again, squinting as he glanced back at Spence’s letter of resignation. “It just ain’t every day we can lure someone like you to this business.” It was the business that compelled him to leave, he thought, though he didn’t tell Jacob that. Neither did he tell the old man that he’d originally written that letter over two months ago, a few hours after his last encounter with Billy. He didn’t know why he hadn’t handed it in that night. There was nothing left in this world he believed in; it had turned to lies and ashes just like the life he’d tried to escape. He’d left the showground before Billy rode, which was just as well. He only picked up pieces of the story in the subsequent days, and learned in that patchwork method that

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Billy had ridden despite advice from the medics. His shoulder wasn’t up to the strain of holding out against the thunderous pull of a bronco, and he’d proven that by lasting all of a second in the saddle before the horse flung him halfway across the ring. He kept up with the news from the stableyard gossip. Billy had been a frequent topic of discussion those first few days, if only because it was one of Diamond Stock’s horses that had inflicted the original injury. Then he was rumored to be taking some time off to recuperate, though gossip claimed he had to stop for lack of funds after parting ways with his sponsor, and news dried up altogether. Spence was glad he hadn’t been there to witness it. He would only have made a complete fool of himself for a man who clearly thought so little of him that he could lie with every other breath. He never got the full story from Cordell, but he hadn’t expected to. After that weekend, through either luck or design, Spence had been assigned to oversee the rehabilitation of the colt, and hadn’t attended a rodeo since. Billy had tried to get in contact with him. When Spence stopped taking calls entirely, he’d received two letters addressed to him at the company, his name spelled out in messy, looping script. He’d thrown them out unopened. Something tightened in his throat every time he thought about that. The colt had gone back to competition a couple of weeks back, and Spence had spent the intervening time reading that resignation letter night after night. Last night, he decided it was time. There was nothing left for him here. “What are you going to do?” Jacob asked, looking as bewildered and disappointed as Spence had expected. “I’m not sure yet.” “You’re not going back to Penn?” “No, I…don’t think that’s practical.” Jacob watched him for a moment, chin resting on steepled fingers, wrinkled brow creased even further in a frown. “Has anyone been giving you a rough time over that hooey?” Spence blinked. “Excuse me?” “Son, I’m old, but I’m not senile. You think I’d have offered you this job without checking up on your background first? If it’s worth a hog’s ass to you, I don’t believe a word of that bull.”

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“But, I…” The words trailed off into speechlessness. He’d felt bad enough about his decision, feeling as though he was letting down the only one who’d given him a chance. This just went to prove it, and it left him ridiculously close to tears. “There’s people in this life who’ll think nothing of taking advantage of a smart kid like you.” Jacob stood slowly, turning to face the large bay window behind the desk, staring out across the vast, flat vista of ranch land. “All you did was believe the wrong people, Spence. That’s no crime. Ain’t a single one’a us can say we never made that kind of mistake once in our lives. And anyone who believes crazy rumors instead of finding out for themselves, well, then that’s as bad as starting those rumors in the first place.” Spence swallowed hard. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d done to Billy? Walked out when he’d tried to explain, just like everyone had done to him. His voice was tight when he spoke, “Thank you, sir…” “Sir, shmooey. Jacob, son.” The old man glanced over his shoulder. “And I suppose if your mind’s made up, ain’t nothing I can do about it. But you’ve given two weeks notice. And in the meanwhile, there is one thing I’d like you to do for me…”

***

They said what didn’t kill you made you stronger. Billy was still dubious about the validity of that statement, but many things he’d been so certain would be the death of him had come, stayed, and he was still alive. Whether he was living was debatable, but alive, no doubt. That last ride left him unable to do anything with his shoulder at all for a couple of weeks, and it was another two weeks after that before he’d regained some semblance of strength. He’d never been sidelined that long before. Even when he had no red cent to pay his dues and feared he’d miss the call, Reed had stepped in. Reed had been absent since that day, too. For all he claimed to care, for all he said Billy’s interests were foremost in his mind, Reed hadn’t been anywhere near him when Billy had needed someone most. And while he’d never really believed Reed would run his mouth about his subterfuge, it still clung to the back of his mind, dank and cloying. He still went to events half expecting someone to accuse him. He supposed that was something he’d have to learn to live with. It wasn’t much harm done, all told. At least not to his career. And it was just as well, considering that was all he had left now.

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When Billy finally returned to the circuit, Spence was no longer there. He wasn’t good at discreet inquiry, but he did find out that Spence hadn’t quit, he was just working at the ranch instead of at the events. Billy pursued it until it became all too obvious that Spence didn’t want anything more to do with him. Whatever attempts he made at apologizing, at explaining himself, however many letters he wrote, groveling himself into the ground, it wasn’t going to be enough. He’d taken a trust he’d known from the beginning was fragile as spun glass and trampled it into the dust. That Spence had walked away with as much dignity and restraint as he had spoke volumes for the kind of man he was. And Billy’s actions had spoken just as much about the kind of man he was. He didn’t really like that man at all. But there wasn’t any walking away, and nowhere to go even if he did. So he’d dusted himself off as best he could, and gone back to the rodeo. At least he’d made enough over the past few events to pay the fees for one of the biggest events in the region. If he did well here, not only were the winnings more than decent, he had a chance to qualify for the regional finals. Cheating and weeks on the bench aside, he was still fairly well placed, and he’d made up for lost ground since his return. With Spence gone, there wasn’t anything else to focus on. It was a strange sensation for a social creature, when he could go days lately without speaking to another human being, unless he needed to go to the grocery store or the gas station. And he’d even begun seeking out self-service stations, just to avoid the insincerity of banal conversation. Billy didn’t want to talk to strangers, he wanted to talk to Spence. He wanted another late night conversation where he got so carried away with enthusiasm he’d pause now and then and see Spence watching him with affectionate amusement, content to sit and let him ramble. He wanted the thought of someone watching him ride. The thought that someone cared. It wasn’t even the loneliness that hurt most, not really. The pain, unbearable and more relentless than anything he’d done to himself physically, came when he lay awake at night, alone in the deathly silence, and reminded himself it was all his fault. That was what he’d done last night, despite knowing he had a second go-round the following evening. He’d fallen asleep as the sun came up, which wasn’t conducive to being well-rested and alert. But he’d managed to ride when he was still on a numbing combination of painkillers and heartbreak; lethargy really didn’t affect him much anymore.

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Still, he put in a solid ride. He doubted it was good enough to win outright, but even second place and he’d get into the regional finals as a wild card. He’d been loitering around, waiting for the scores, trying to calculate how many points he might have gained and lost, not even paying attention to the conversation going on a few feet away. “And he’s just walking out, without telling you why?” A man in a suit and oil-slick hair combed over a bald patch scoffed at his companions. “Doesn’t sound like a big loss to me, Jacob.” The name snagged his attention, though he couldn’t remember why, and he listened in discreetly as the white-haired man in a whiter Stetson sighed, and replied, “There’s more to it, but if he ain’t gonna tell me, ain’t a thing I can do about it. I don’t know what he’s going to do,” he added with a chuckle. “But at least I won’t have to worry about Quinn going over to the competition; he says he’s done with rodeo.” Billy froze. The conversation continued next to him, turning to other topics, but he was still stuck on the conclusion he’d scraped together from the fragments he’d overheard. When the men began to leave, he snapped out of his daze, not even knowing what he was going to say when he turned to the white haired man. “Excuse me…Mr. Diamond?” “Yes,” Jacob Diamond looked at Billy curiously, waving his companions on as he paused. “Can I help you, son?” “Well, I heard you talking just now, sir, and…” He took off his hat, trying to look respectful and not at all like a guy who’d eavesdrop on strangers’ conversations. “I’m Billy Valentine, I’m a…friend, of Spence Quinn’s. I didn’t know he was leaving.” “Ah…” Jacob nodded. “Damn shame, but what can you do?” He paused, watching Billy for a moment. “Valentine? You’d be Billy Valentine, Junior then, wouldn’t you? I remember when it was your father riding.” That sidetracked him a little. “You knew my dad?” “Yeah…” Jacob smiled wryly. “That was a damn shame too, f’you ask me.” His expression soured. “I suppose Kenny Reed’s around here someplace, too? Or did you get lucky and he quit when your Daddy passed?” “No, he…I’m not involved with him anymore.” “Smarter than your Dad, then.” Jacob snorted softly. “Man was nothing but trouble. Your dad might’a gone down a whole different path if he’d done the same as you.” He smiled. “Maybe you’re smart enough to persuade your buddy to hang around, too, huh?”

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“I don’t think so, sir. He and I…we kinda had a disagreement. But…I know for a fact he doesn’t want to quit, I know how highly he thought of you, and how much he loves this job. Things…” Billy hesitated, fingers tightening around the brim of his hat. “Things were going on that he didn’t feel right about, and they might’ve swayed his decision.” Jacob frowned, though he appeared more concerned than suspicious. “Go on…” “Spence’s a good guy, you probably know that, and he believes so much in what he does, it means everything to him. A while back, there were things that…made him lose faith in a lot of the things he believed in. He’d never have done wrong by you, sir, and he’d never walk out on you without thinking he had a good reason, but he doesn’t, he just can’t see that.” He took a breath, before the pleading turned to begging; Spence wouldn’t appreciate that, or anything else Billy offered, but he had to try. “Please, sir…try and make him stay. He just needs to know that he’s believing in the right things this time.” Jacob watched him silently for a long moment, before smiling slightly. “Funny, that’s just what I told him. He didn’t seem too convinced then.” “Try again.” “Yeah, you’re Billy’s boy all right.” Jacob chuckled, shaking his head. “Quinn better know what a good buddy he has.” Billy tried for a smile. “That don’t matter, as long as he doesn’t throw this away.” Jacob nodded. “I’ll try, son, but I ain’t promising anything. His mind seems made up.” He held out a bony hand for Billy to shake, grasp firmer than the gnarled hand implied. “Good meeting you, son. Your dad’d be proud.” He held the smile until Jacob walked away to rejoin the corporate suits before it faded. There was nothing to be proud of in just trying to fix mistakes, he thought. Billy turned to leave, and stopped dead in his tracks. He’d seen accusation in those blue eyes before, but not quite this up-close and personal. Despite the fact there was nothing welcoming about that stare, he couldn’t help smiling faintly, couldn’t quite subdue the flicker of hope. “Hey, Spence. Long time no see…”

* * * For the first few moments, Spence just stared, words failing him. He’d known it was likely Billy would be at this event, but the reality of Billy standing a few feet away was another thing entirely.

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Not just that, but talking to Jacob, and he might have been unfairly suspicious, but he doubted they’d been chatting about the weather, or the state of the horse feed industry. “Why were you talking to Mr. Diamond?” Billy raised a brow, countering that question with one of his own. “Why are you quitting?” “That’s none of your business, and I’d appreciate it, even if you never had one iota of respect for me, that you have some for him and leave him alone.” Billy stared at him, coffee-colored gaze confused. “When didn’t I respect you?” He shook his head at the disbelief in Spence’s eyes, and went on. “I heard him telling his guys you were leaving. I—” “Harassed him about it.” Spence finished. “Told him not to let you.” Billy looked at him. “Told him to try and change your mind.” That answer threw Spence, left him scrabbling for some kind of coherent response. “You told him?” Billy shook his head. “Not in so many ways. Is that what it’d take? ‘Cause if that’s what’d make you stay, then I’ll go over there right now, and—“ “Don’t.” Spence breathed, eyes closing as though that could shut off the mere idea. “Don’t make offers you can’t see through, Billy. If he knew, you’d never ride again. You’d never do that for anyone, least of all me.” The silence dragged on. When he opened his eyes, Billy was watching him, as calm and as serious as Spence could ever remember seeing the man. “Yeah. I would.” The measured vehemence in those words reeled around and hit him, pounding their sincerity into his brain with each syllable. He must have been mistaken. The only thing Billy Valentine felt that strongly about was rodeo, and winning at whatever cost. Spence didn’t feature anywhere in that, however much that sincerity suggested otherwise. It was just a mistake, another in a long line. He backed up, needing to put distance between them. “I should go—“ “Can we talk?”

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“We are talking.” “Spence—“ If he wasn’t going to be allowed to run, then he convinced himself he could put an end to it instead. What harm would talking do? “Fine. But not here. I’ll tell Mr. Diamond I’m leaving, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” He didn’t wait to see if that was acceptable, walking away before he lost his nerve. Jacob seemed a little disappointed that Spence was leaving early; Spence lied that it was unavoidable, and left Jacob to his schmoozing and business drinks. While he was relieved he didn’t have to stay to try and impress Jacob’s associates, he wished it was for some other reason. Every step on the way to the parking lot felt as though he wasn’t just going to meet Billy, he was going to meet his fate. Billy was waiting, leaning against the truck door. Billy hadn’t seen him, so Spence took a moment to soak up all the things he’d missed. Like the lazy grace, long legs crossed at the ankles, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, hat tilted down over his eyes. But there was a tension threaded through the posture that Spence hadn’t noticed before. Billy glanced up, caught him staring, and smiled shyly like a boy on his first date. Spence smiled back instinctively before catching himself. He was supposed to be angry. He was supposed to be ending this. There were no words as they got into the truck, and as Billy fired up the engine, Spence let the memories assault him. It felt like a lifetime ago, that this truck was their sanctuary on star-lit back roads. The nostalgia turned into something more yearning, more bitter, when Billy eventually parked the truck next to the trailer. Last time Spence had left this place, his world had fallen apart. Going back wouldn’t magically put it back together. And wasn’t he presumptuous for assuming that was what Billy had in mind anyway? Billy hit the lights once they were inside, and gestured for Spence to take a seat. Spence stayed standing, arms folded across his chest, the poster child for reticent body language that just grew the longer Billy went without saying anything. “You know, I offended a good man by coming here, if you’ve got something to say, then—“

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“I’m sorry. I’m just…” Billy took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair again. “I had it all planned in my head, what I’d say to you, but now you’re here I just can’t think straight…” “Billy…” “I’m sorry. I should have told you. Or better yet I should never have done anything I needed to tell you about.” Billy watched him intently, voice soft and a little shaky around the edges. “I don’t have any excuses. I was scared, I thought I wasn’t any good at the only thing I know, I wasn’t making my sponsor any money…” He looked away. “He suggested it, I…didn’t argue. I should have, but…” When he looked back, there was a pleading look in his eyes, and Spence had no idea what he was supposed to offer in return. “I didn’t want to be an also-ran. I didn’t want to turn into my Dad.” “You wouldn’t,” Spence replied automatically. “You’re better than that.” “Maybe. If it’s worth anything, I never hated riding as much as I did then. The weekend I busted my shoulder, I’d asked Reed to stop. He went ahead anyway. And that’s when it stopped. It’d stopped before I knew you’d found out.” He smiled a little wryly. “I thought I could get out of it without you knowing…” “So why did you let me think it was my fault?” The question was soft, as fearful as Billy sounded. “Because if you knew, you’d walk away. Which you did. I don’t blame you,” Billy added quickly. “I just…didn’t want you to go. If I could take it back, Spence…If I had that night back, I’d tell you. I hate myself for knowing what it did to you…” “What did you tell Mr. Diamond?” Billy shrugged. “That you loved what you did, and that the reasons you wanted to leave had nothing to do with how good you are at your job, just with the things that’d turned it sour for you. I mean it. I’d tell him everything if you want me to. Get your guy fired, everyone’d know none of that shit was your fault--” “I don’t want that. I don’t want you giving this up because of me.” “For you.” Billy corrected him. “Ain’t the same thing.” He tried to ignore the thrill that raced through him at those words, refused to indulge in any wishful thinking. It was a mistake. Just a stupid mistake. “So where does that leave us?” “I don’t know,” Billy tried for a weak laugh, falling a little short. “I’m going to the regional finals, and you’re getting the hell outta Dodge…”

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“Yeah…” “Or you could tear up that resignation letter and give it another chance. Give me another chance…” “Billy—“ “I know. I’m sorry.” “It’s not…” Spence shook his head, as though that would reorganize his jumbled thoughts. He didn’t want Billy to be sorry, it was easier to justify running away from this if he could convince himself Billy was unrepentant. “You don’t know how hard it was giving you a first chance. And look where that got me.” Billy smiled sadly at him. “I’ll never regret that you did, though. It was a good place to be for a while there.” “Yeah. It was…” If he didn’t leave now, if he didn’t walk away while he had the slightest measure of composure and will, he was going to live to regret yet another mistake. He knew it. It didn’t matter that he felt more right standing here than he had in weeks, that even if this was goodbye, hearing Billy’s voice saying it was better than being alone. “All you did was believe the wrong people, Spence. That’s no crime.” Jacob’s words echoed in his head. Was Billy wrong people? This beautifully flawed creature who’d made him laugh when he hadn’t even wanted to smile, made him feel strong when he was convinced he was weak. Who’d driven away the ghosts with just a kiss, with a passion that swept him away like a Texas tornado. He’d made mistakes, too. He’d trusted the wrong people, too. He’d searched for things he thought he needed in the wrong places, too. And he was still running away. “This wasn’t a good idea…” He turned vaguely for the door, letting the gesture finish the statement for him. “Don’t go.” Strong arms wrapped around him before he could reach the door, keeping him pressed back tightly against Billy’s chest. “I don’t deserve it, I know that, but please…” Lips pressed against the nape of his neck, and the touch snapped through him like electricity. “Please…”

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As natural as breathing, it was just as impossible to resist the compulsion to turn in Billy’s arms, hands pressed against that chest, feeling the quickstep of Billy’s heartbeat under his fingers. For a moment that was all that moved. Then Billy lowered his head, or Spence raised his, lips meeting in the most tentative of kisses, need caged by wariness. I’m not wrong about this. I’m not wrong about him. He might as well have spoken aloud. Billy’s arms tightened around him, Spence’s hands clenching in the back of Billy’s shirt. The doubt faded, and the want blossomed through the kiss, Billy’s tongue lapping soft, shy licks at the corner of his mouth, Spence catching Billy's upper lip between his own, eyes fluttering at the contact. No mistake. Not this time. The kiss flared out of control at the silent admission, and for once Spence just stood by and let it. Their hands were everywhere, assuaging a thirst for touch, drinking in every angle, every texture, remembering and re-learning all at once. The path to the bed was marked by tangled shirts and kicked-off boots and Spence’s glasses were somewhere amid the mess, but he didn’t mind. He had another pair of glasses; he couldn’t find a replacement for this. His pants ended up around his knees, while Billy’s were kicked off the bed, disappearing over the edge in a jangle of belt buckles. It wasn’t all that funny, but he laughed anyway, relieved and giddy, pleased when Billy just smiled at him as if he’d hung the moon. He reached up, fingers curving against Billy's cheek, sucking in a breath when Billy turned his head, eyes closed, and kissed Spence’s palm. “You better not be going anywhere.” The words were a ticklish growl against his skin. “Drives me crazy when you’re not here…” Spence didn’t think he could rely on his voice, replying with kisses instead, arms looped around Billy’s neck, holding him close. He could have stayed that way forever, never quite making up for lost time, until Billy leaned away slightly. Spence arched up to move with him, not wanting to let go. He smiled against Billy’s chest as he heard the nightstand drawer swish open, and thunk shut. He fell back against the bed as Billy sat straddling his thighs, one hand stroking Spence’s arousal, tearing the condom open with his teeth. Spence held still, held his breath as Billy prepared him, slick hands circling his shaft. Spence reached for him, fingers digging into his hips, as Billy moved forward, rubbing back against Spence’s erection, getting himself ready and teasing Spence all at once.

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Their eyes met, gazes held as Billy positioned him, sliding back onto Spence’s cock in one slow thrust. Spence’s head thudded back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut, drowning in the tight heat of Billy’s body, in the flat-palmed press of his hands against Spence’s chest. He looked up, breath snatched from him at the sight above him, beautiful and unselfconscious, gold hair and warm eyes and skin like sunshine. His hands slid from Billy’s hips, fingernails raking bluntly along Billy’s sides. Billy leaned down for a kiss, forearms braced against the bed, both hands in Spence’s hair, hips rolling, driving him deeper. Spence arched up as Billy pushed down, thrust meeting thrust. One arm kept Billy pressed close, while the other hand slid down his lover’s body, grasping the erection that jutted against Spence’s stomach. Billy leaned back, lost in sensation, rocking on Spence’s arousal, into Spence’s touch, seeking his own pleasure. One hand helped Spence stroke, controlling the frantic pace, the other reached for his free hand, fingers entwining. Spence held on, lifting their hands to his lips, nuzzling and nipping Billy’s knuckles, making Billy smile, an innocent and uncomplicated expression. Spence sat up, raining kisses onto his lover’s chest as Billy’s hands wound into his hair again, tightening and tugging, body moving hungrily against him. Wet heat splashed over his fingers, his stomach, as Billy cried out his name, body clamping around Spence’s like a vise, and he clung on for dear life as his own climax crashed into him, stampeding over his senses and turning his vision to multi-colored light. His heartbeat thundered like hooves on sun-baked dirt as awareness came back by degrees. He’d fallen back against the bed at some point, taking Billy with him. Billy murmurred something soft, brushing kisses against the hollow of his throat, where Spence’s pulse fluttered like a caged thing against Billy’s lips. He lifted his head, looking down at Spence with a smile like sunshine, warm and dazzling. They’d been tangled up in this from the start, and the reins were only winding tighter. Spence smiled, leaning up to kiss Billy softly. “You’re going to be a wild ride, aren’t you?” Billy grinned wickedly. “Yes, sir.” One brow raised in mock skepticism. “Think you can handle that, college boy?” Spence smiled into another kiss, nipping playfully at Billy’s lips, tasting trust and truth along with the desire. No mistake.

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“Bring it on, cowboy.”

-- END --

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Ricochet By BA Tortuga "You're going?" He sighed and looked over at Dave, then down at the bags in his hands. No, asshole. He was just in the mood to pack all his fucking clothes and put them in his truck. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm going." "But." Christ, Holt didn't want to go over this shit again. He wanted a cigarette so fucking bad it burned, but sure as shit, he put one of the suitcases down to dig one out, Dave'd be all over it. "There ain't no buts left, honey. This ain't working for me." It hadn't been working for him for damn near a year, trapped in this close-walled, little seventh floor apartment with a city slicker who wasn't never going to grow up, wasn't never going to stop needing someone to tell him his shit didn't stink. Someone to be something sensitive and classy and sophisticated – all that shit he'd never be. Holt had tried, God knew he had, but damn, he wanted to go home now. "But Holt, I love you. I'd give you anything you wanted, don't you fucking know that?" He did, and that was part of it, wasn't it? How the fuck was he supposed to respect a man who'd do that? Give up what made him happy just to keep them together. "I know, honey." His truck was downstairs, waiting for him. He'd been packing for the better part of two days, loading the boxes tight under the camper shell. His Daddy'd told him when he headed out that there wasn't a damn thing up north in the big city that would soothe a cowboy's soul. It had taken a couple of years for those words to make themselves true. A couple of years of not being able to find decent iced tea or enchiladas; a couple of years of rude, fucking Yankees making fun of the way he talked; a couple of years of too hot in the summer and fucking frigid in the winter. A couple of years of being penned in like a damned goat – the heading into the machine shop and then heading home to listen to Dave talk about what he was going to do and who all he was going to be and never actually going and doing. "Stay the weekend. Hell, stay the night. Please."

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Holt almost groaned as the tears started, a bit of dull anger started to creep up to mingle with the guilt and the hint of regret he did have. He'd loved Dave. He had. But shit, loving somebody didn't mean liking them one fucking bit and he needed out of this rat trap he was in. "Don't beg, Dave. You're better than that." "If I'm better than that, why the fuck are you going? For my own good? What? You're bad for me?" "Maybe." Mostly not, though. Mostly he was going because he could, because if it was so easy to walk away from a good job and a decent man and a place to live and head west then it was time to go. "Are you cheating on me, is that it? Are you bored in bed? I'll get a job, Holt. Just say you'll stay." Holt spent a minute looking, remembering. Dave was still the prettiest thing he'd ever seen – lean and spare, long, blond hair setting off blue eyes like the sun against water, kinda willowy. It was the look of an actor on stage, maybe one of them Shakespeare plays with fairies and shit that looked the same for a hundred years and never changed. The problem was, Holt had changed. He was fixin' to be thirty-seven and it showed. His brown hair and beard had gray in it now. There were lines beside his eyes from the sun, and scars on his hands from twenty years as a machinist. He felt the cold now, like he hadn't even five years ago and… He wasn't interested in taking care of a flitting fairy for the rest of his life. "I haven't ever cheated on you, Dave, not once. I gotta head home. This place ain't for me." "Then I'll come with you." Well, shit, there was a dull, rough panic at that thought that made him plumb ashamed of himself, made him think thoughts that made him think less of himself. Thoughts like what people would say the first time Dave threw a fit in a diner because the food wasn't just so, or the first time Dave had to go into a Wal-Mart because there weren't any options.

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Of course, the image of Dave in his little workout pants and walking shoes mucking out stalls was surprisingly funny… "Dave." He finally put the suitcases down, dug out the Camel that was screaming his name. The sound of him tapping down the smokes on the heel of his hand was sorta loud. "There ain't nothin' in Texas that you want. You'd be as miserable there as I am here." "There'd be you." No. No, there probably wouldn't be. "That's not enough." He took a deep drag, the burn and itch filling his lungs right up. As he'd feared, Dave took it as an offer, getting up off the sofa and heading over, pushing right up close and clinging, kissing along his jaw and shit. "It's enough for me, Holt. Please. Please, we've been together for so long. You're going to just walk away from all of this because you're homesick?" Lord have mercy. He clamped the filter between his teeth and wrapped his hands around Dave's hips. The flash of victory in those baby blues turned right into fury as he gently moved Dave away, putting space between them. He wasn't one for pity fucks, no matter how good the person he pitied promised to be. "Yeah, looks like." Homesick. Bored. Tired. Old. Done. Pick one. "I'm not gonna argue with you no more, honey. I don't wish you a bit of ill, but it's time for me to pick up my shit and go." The slap rocked his head back on his shoulders some, but he reckoned he deserved it. "Then go, you lousy, piece of garbage redneck! Get the Hell out!" Dave stomped down the hall, footsteps ringing as they left, the slamming door loud as fuck. Holt sighed once, but nodded. He'd kind of wanted this to be quiet and easy, but he'd take it just being over, he surely would. He finished the last two puffs of his smoke and looked around the little apartment with its neon view, lime green walls, white tile floor, and neat, little radiator heaters one more time, just shaking his head. Well, shit. "Bye, honey. I'm real sorry." He stubbed out his smoke and picked up his suitcases, managing to get the door open. Something behind him clicked and he made a half-turn, staring eye-to-eye with the little Saturday night special he'd got Dave for protection. "You're right, you fuckhead. You're going to be real fucking sorry."

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Well, shit. *** Holt stormed out of the police station, the wind and rain hitting him hard. Jesus fucking Christ he hated this goddamned place. Little fucker. Thought to press charges on him for battery? After shooting him in the goddamn FACE? Scum-sucking, bottom-feeding jackass. Motherfucker was lucky he had only broken a few bones. Speaking of broken bones, his goddamn wrist was screaming like a stiffed whore, the day-glo cast too fucking heavy and tight for comfort. Five more weeks of this shit. Five more weeks of not being able to move it and he'd be goddamned if he didn't figure how to shift his Chevy and drive it home. The frigging stitches were out of his cheek, the bandage off his goddamn eye where the gunpowder'd left nasty, fucking black spots in the white. Goddamn Frankenstein, that's what he was. A fucking monster. Then, after he got out of the motherfucking hospital, they'd dragged his happy ass down to the goddamned police station and proceeded to question him for... Holt checked his watch. Twenty-two hours about whether or not he'd intended to hurt Dave. Hurt him? Fuck. Holt was trying to kill the little prick. Too fucking bad it didn't fucking work. Little cocksucker wouldn't be a movie star, though, would he? Fuck no. Bastard. Holt growled at some three-piece-suit asshole as he headed down the stairs, intending to go get his truck and head west, come Hell or high water. They were waiting on his happy ass at home. Hell, Momma'd been pissed as Hell that some Yankee'd shot up her boy. Holt was surprised she wasn't there, shovel in hand.

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"Well now, a man flies all the way to Yankeeland to help out an old friend and all he gets is passed by?" That was a blast from the past, that voice, low and slow and deep. Holt stopped still, some asshole behind him knocking into his back and cussing him. Good lord. "Teague?" "You know it, buddy. Your momma called." Sure enough, it was Teague, looking older and more sun and wind worn, but the same as always, one way or another. Blue, blue eyes stared at him from under the brim of a battered Resistol. "Shit." He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, trying to decide if he was pleased or embarrassed. "I... I sure didn't expect nobody to come." "Well, your momma said you had a bad hand, so I came on to help you drive." Grinning to beat the band, Teague came forward and gave him a hug on his good side, really squeezing hard. He let himself squeeze back, let himself relax, just a little. "I wouldn't mind a bit of company on the way. This fucking wrist is awkward as all get out." Not to mention the whole tight, healing face part. "Too hot, too tight, and about to itch you right out of your mind?" He got a grin, one of those lazy, happy grins he forgot he even missed until now. "You need help getting your stuff?" "It's all packed; I was ready to go." He wanted out so fucking bad it hurt. "Tell me you ain't wanting to play tourist." "No, sir." Teague looked about, hands sliding into the back pockets of the thinnest, worn Wranglers. Teague had always let them wear too damned thin. "Ain't never lost nothing here I'd want back, 'cept you." Well, Hell. What did that... His train of thought got derailed as somebody slammed into his broke arm, jostling it. "Goddamnit." "Come on, you. Let's get you out of here." Teague put one hand under his good elbow, leading him out toward the parking lot. "You drive, or did they haul you in?" "Shit. I was still bashing the fuck out of the bastard that shot me when the cops showed. I'm three blocks down, two blocks over." He had his truck keys, his house keys. "I have two suitcases upstairs. The rest is in the truck."

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It better still be in the fucking truck. "You got it. Come on, Holt. Let's get your shit and get shed of this place. It stinks, you know? I got us a map, and I figure we can wait until we get out of the city good before we stop and eat, unless you're fading." Man, it was good to have Teague. He was just solid, right and tight, cowboy to the bone. Just what the doctor ordered. "I just want out, swear to God, Teague. Right fucking now." Everything about the city was irritating the fire out of him - from the crush of folks to the smell. "Well, out we'll get." That hand squeezed his arm, the long fingers warm and fine, comforting. "You held on a lot longer than I could have." "Yeah. I held on longer than I should've." He ducked his head, wishing to fuck he had a hat on. He'd never fucking look in a mirror without remembering the lesson, though. "Ain't nothing to be ashamed of, buddy. You loved him a lot." There was an odd note in that smooth as caramel voice, one he couldn't quite get, not with all the noise buzzing around. It was a fucking relief to get to his truck and find it pretty well intact. Holt stood there for a minute, knees a little weak. He tried to think what all was upstairs in the apartment in those suitcases, whether it would be worth going to get them. Whether he even cared. "You all right?" Suddenly Teague was close, warm against his side, sort of holding him up. God, the last time he'd seen this man the scar next to the corner of his left eye hadn't been there, and the lines around Teague's mouth had been barely visible. What had it been? Two years? Three? Thanksgiving at Momma's. "No, I ain't. I..." He pressed his lips together tight against the flood of words that wanted out. He wasn't even a little bit okay. "Hey, come on, now. Hold on with me. Gimme your keys and I'll go get the bags. You get in the truck and sit." Just like that Teague had him in the cab of his truck, sitting in the passenger seat, and the man himself was walking into his building to get those suitcases. Thank God for the man. Just... thank God. He'd damn near forgot what it felt like, to just sit.

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To take a breath and let someone else do the doing. Lost in thought, he jumped near a mile when Teague hopped in the driver's side, grinning. "All set." The big engine purred to life under Teague's hand, and before he could blink they were on the road, Teague cussing the traffic. "I. What you been up to, Teague? Momma just always says you're good when I ask." Momma always said things were good. Come home. See for himself. "Huh? Oh, I been working for old man Tanner. You know he got the rheumatoid arthritis so bad. He's talking about letting me buy his place on time. It's small, but I could really run some horses there." Yeah. Yeah, his momma had said Teague had gotten where he was doing real well with the cutting horses. "Oh, there's a plan. I'm just gonna look for work somewhere. I been doing what I do long enough, somebody'll want me." Places were always looking for a man who knew his shit. "You kidding?" Teague looked over, icy blue eyes shining under the hat. "Your momma will have something lined up before we get out of the city." "If Daddy hasn't gone down to the shop and got me something already." They were all happy as pigs in shit that he was returning to the flock. "They're tickled," Teague said, like he was agreeing with Holt's thought. "I am, too, truth be told. Ain't too many moving in. More moving out." "It's time. There's only so long a man can be miserable before he gets called back." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "I wasn't meant for this up here.” "You tried, buddy. That's all a man can do. You mind if we take some of the smaller roads? Not as fast as the interstate, I know, but I need to see something not completely blocked with houses and buildings and shit." Teague pulled a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one over. Oh, now, Momma'd said he'd quit. "Works for me. I got time." He took one, brought it to his lips, and pushed in the lighter. Hell, yes. Just the scent of tobacco eased him some. A battered Zippo landed in his lap. “Use that. If you could light me one, too. I know you

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can, even one handed." Yup, just like old times, that Zippo. It had belonged to Teague's daddy. "Lord, lord. I do remember this." Eagle all raised up on one side, the scent of smoke and lighter fluid familiar as his own breath. He lit Teague's smoke, then his own. "Thanks, buddy. Yeah, we did a lot of bullshitting over beer and smokes, huh?" The cigarette slid right between Teague's fingers, the thumb on that right hand all scarred up, looking like a rope had tried to take it off. "Not enough. Nowhere near enough." He watched Teague smoke, almost forgetting he had one himself. Christ, he was wore out. "You're gonna burn yourself." He got another one of those smiles. "Relax, buddy. I'll get you home." "Yeah? I'll take you up on it, man. I surely will." He put the cigarette out without taking a puff, head lolling. Hell, yes. Home. *** Hell, he'd been shocked at how Holt looked coming out of that police station. Oh, not the lurid new scar on his cheek, or the broken wrist. Holt's momma had warned him about that. No, it was the pallor of the man's skin, the way his eyes looked sunken and tired. It made him want to tear that little pencil dick Holt had lived with to pieces for tearing the man down like that. Made him so mad his teeth kept grinding. Sighing, Teague started looking at the road signs, trying to find some place to stop and eat. Dark had long since come on, and his eyes were getting tired. Surely these Yankees had to have something, even if they didn't have Waffle Houses or Cracker Barrels. Ah. There. A Denny's. He pulled off and parked, the sudden silence as the engine stopped almost startling. Teague poked Holt gently. "Hey, buddy. Want pancakes?" Holt's eyes flew open, rolling wildly for a second before settling. "Lord. I was dreaming. Yeah. Yeah, I can't remember last time I ate. Where the fuck are we, buddy?" "Uh. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think. Maybe Northern Virginia." Hell, he wasn't sure. Rubbing the back of his neck had it creaking and cracking, the sound like a shot.

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"Damn. You been driving hard. You shoulda woke me, Teague. I'd've took my turn." "No worries, buddy. I can sleep a bit here in the truck and be fine. Less you want to stretch out on a bed, then I won't argue. But I gotta eat first." His stomach growled again, letting him know it like a preacher singing gospel. "I'll get us a room. I'm needing a shower." Holt moved slow and careful, sliding out of the truck. "Oh, smell the bacon." "Uh-huh. I think I want one of them big meat sampler things." He was needing nourishment in the worst way. Watching Holt carefully, he waited to see if the man needed help. Fuck, he looked tired. "I want coffee and something with syrup. Lots of syrup." Holt held his own, clomping up to the door and tugging it open. "You betcha." Man, those lights were bright inside. The place had the sort of desperate feel all twenty-four hour places had at two a.m., so hushed you could hear the ice machine hum and the waitress pop her gum. Holt slid into an empty booth without even a hi or howdy to the little tired-looking gal in the apron. Yeah, maybe they ought to get a room, both of them could sleep hard. He almost laughed. Sleeping with Holt. Well, that had been a dear dream for years, just not this way. "I'll have that farmer's thing, honey," he said, "and decaf." If they were gonna sleep there was no sense wiring himself up. "I want leaded and a stack of pancakes." Holt stared down at the table for a long time, then took a deep breath and leaned back, meeting his eyes. It kinda jolted him, like touching a live wire, and damned if it didn't give him goose bumps. Holt was coming home. "So. I imagine they'd frown on us smoking up here." "Probably. This ain’t tobacco country. Although I'm scary enough these days they might just not." Teague got a crooked grin, a wink. "You are a sight for sore eyes, I swear to God." "So are you, buddy. I don't think you look scary at all." Hell, he was sounding sappy, wasn't he? He grinned a little. "I'm just glad you're okay." "Yeah, for a second there, I thought... Shit. You never think a person can turn so quick, huh?" "I hear that. I swear, buddy, I never thought that little bit had the balls." Go him. He didn't say little shit. A man didn't need his mistakes rubbed in his face.

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"Me either. I mean, I've been planning to go a while, you know? Getting my shit put to rights." Holt sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head. "I'm just lucky they didn't charge me with assault and battery. He ain't so pretty now." "Well, it's over." There. Solid. Teague sipped his coffee, grimacing a little at the taste. Sugar and cream. Yeah. "That bad?" Holt passed the sugar over. "And yeah, thank God. I... It's gonna sound plumb heartless, but I been wanting to run a while." "Yeah. And it don't sound heartless to me, buddy. I don't claim to know what he thinks, but I know you. You tried to make it right." Lord. "I just want to be home. Have a little place where you and me can have a beer and be able to have Momma's chicken and biscuits on a Sunday." Holt chuckled, eyes lighting right up in that face with the tan line where that heavy beard had been shaved away. "Oh, and fishing. You know how long it's been since I went fishing?" "I bet a while. Not much place to go in the city. We'll get us a cooler and some poles and go have a ball." There. That look was much better. So much better. "Hell, yes. Shit, I'd even come out and muck stalls to free up your time." Holt rubbed the still red scar on his cheek, one leg starting to bounce a little. "Oh, you know I'll put you to work." He knew that bounce, and it actually made him happy. Meant the man was engaged, was thinking about something other than exhaustion and fury. The food looked a Hell of a lot better than the coffee, too. He figured things were looking up. "I can't wait." Holt dug in, mouth opening real careful like it was still tender to stretch. A wave of fury washed over him. That fucking little asshole. He'd had the best thing going in the whole fucking world, and he'd shot it. Jesus fucking Christ. If he didn't need to get Holt home... The handle of the coffee cup plinked right off in his hand, leaving him blinking at it. "Cheap fucking mugs." Holt waved down the waitress and got him another cup, just like that. "Uh, yeah." Well, at least Holt didn't see. He didn't think so, anyway. "So, there's a Ho Jo just down the road." "Cool. You in a big hurry, buddy? ‘Cause I could sure use a shower, a nice long nap. I'll pay for the room."

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"No hurry. I got someone to watch the horses, and your momma is taking care of everything else. I got days." Days and days to spend alone in a truck with Holt if he wanted. "Oh, good. Good. I. Shit, Teague. I just want to take a minute and breathe, you know?" The poor son of a bitch looked gobsmacked, like things were just barely holding together. "Have more syrup, man." He grinned. "Sugar always did make you feel better. You remember that Christmas when you ate all of my Aunt Margie's divinity in an hour? I thought you were gonna die, but no, you just bounced until you fell asleep." Holt hooted, the sound familiar as his momma's wind chimes. "Oh, God yes. That was something else. I woke up the next day in the loft of your daddy's barn, still dressed in my Sunday shirt." "Yup. And your momma liked to have a fit, calling all over, checking the hospital and all..." He laughed along, thinking of how Holt's hair had stuck up, full of straw. "Shit, Daddy tanned my hide when I got to the house, too. Still, it was worth it, I'm thinking." Holt chuckled, shook his head. "Divinity is worth any trouble." The taste of it was something he still craved at Christmas, even though his momma was gone. His daddy never had recovered, and was over with relatives in Dallas now. "Yes, sir. Oh, man. We can go over to Gracie's and get the good pralines, too." Oh, now. Yeah. Yeah. Holt was laughing again, tired enough to swing up and down and up again just that quick. "You bet." Teague finished up, sitting back and wiping his mouth. "Damn, Holt. Now I'm tired." "That's 'cause it's late, buddy." Holt pulled out a twenty, finished his coffee. "Let's find us a bed." "Okay. Deal." Yeah. A bed. His whole body went whoa, cowboy. Holt didn't mean it that way. He never had. The poor little waitress took their stuff away and he gave her a smile, just wanting to cheer her up. Holt handed over the money, growling until he put his own cash away, got the change, and headed out, making a beeline for the pick-up. From the back, Holt still looked so fine, muscled and male and not the littlest bit girly. A man could get lost in that look, in that body. He shook his head at himself. "Get the fuck over it, Teague. You're acting like a damned fool."

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Holt looked back at him, frowning a little. "You say something, buddy?" "Huh? Nah. Just mumbling. Got stiff." Stiff. Yeah. In places. They got in the truck and headed over to the Ho Jo, where a sleepy, pimply-faced boy handed them over a key and yawned. They dragged their suitcases in, plopped them down. The room was clean enough, the big old bed taking up most of the space. Holt managed to get his shirt off before reaching for his luggage. Holt stopped, looked, then went and got a washrag from the bathroom and scrubbed the leather off, the blood staining the rag a dull pink. Damn. "Oh, Lord. Here. Why don't you go get a shower and I'll get that." Did a man really need that? Hell no. "It's..." Holt looked up at him, looking a little wild. "I'm going to get wet. I'll deal with it in the morning." Then Holt headed into the bathroom, the water starting right up. God almighty. He was halfway through cleaning off the bag when it occurred to him that the place had one bed. One. Oh, for Christ's sake. He was just gonna die. Holt came out of the bathroom, wet and fine, wearing a towel. Just a towel. "Your bag is all clean," Teague mumbled, before making a beeline for the bathroom himself. A cold shower. That might hold him until he got to sleep. And then he wouldn't be looking. And looking. Of course, when he got out, Holt was in the bed, casted hand up over the man's head, wearing a little pair of knit shorts. Sound asleep. Teague took a deep breath, stripping to his shorts and wadding some sheet up between him and Holt so he wouldn't be tempted to rub up on the man. Holt surely didn't need that from him. And he wasn't even being a Christian martyr. The man was just so fucking tired. Holt opened his eyes, just a little, and Teague got a real, warm smile, not even a little bit awake. "Hey, Buddy. Good to see you." Then Holt relaxed, snuggling into the pillows with a sigh.

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"You, too, man. You, too. Sleep now." Teague turned off the light and turned on his side facing Holt, letting his eyes adjust to the light. As he drifted off he reached right out to touch Holt's arm, his fingers resting there lightly, reassuring himself that this was real, and that Holt was coming home. He'd lost the man once. He wasn't letting Holt get away again. *** Holt woke with a jerk and a groan, cast whacking something good and hard enough to jar him dead upright. "Jesus fuck!" Fucking dreams. Fucking Dave. Fucking... Some car outside backfired again and he damn near jumped out of his skin. His ass slid down off the slick sheets, slapping on the floor as he tried to figure out what the fuck was up. "Holt?" His eyes adjusted to the dim light enough to see Teague's face as the man hung his head down over the side of the bed. "Buddy?" "Yeah. Sorry. I." He swallowed, raised his hand. "Whacked the fuck out of my hand when that..." The fucking car outside backfired again. "...p.o.s. out there woke me." Not that he dreamed about getting shot these days, because that shit was crazy. "You need me to look at it? Or get some ice from the ice machine? We could put it around the cast, help the swelling." Teague was in full on mother hen mode, something he'd deny in a heartbeat, but did all the damned time. "No. No, I got pills if it gets to throbbing." He got himself pushed up back on the bed, blinking a little slow. "Didn't mean to wake you, buddy." "S'okay." Warm hands slid under his arms, pulling him the rest of the way on the big bed. "You're jumpy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs." "Yeah. Goddamn doctors say it'll get better. Getting shot in the face makes a man twitchy, I guess." Just a little. He settled back against the headboard, eyes closing. Christ. "I'm sorry, man," Teague said quietly, moving back a little, giving him space. "You want something? I think I could use a Coke and some of them little gem donuts." Oh. Powdered sugar donuts. Uhn. "That sounds close to Heaven. I can get 'em. Did we sleep long?"

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He was already tired of this cast thing, this tight in the face thing, no shit. "Few hours. I figure we need some more nap before we try to keep on." Teague got up, pulled on that ratty, old pair of jeans. "I got it. Takes two hands for that dollar thing. Powdered or chocolate?" "Get two of each and we'll share." He almost grinned, remembering how him and Teague'd run to the Woody's and grab a big old bag of them Mexican donuts and get to school with powdered sugar from one end to the other and hyped up to beat the band. "You got it." With a grin and a wink, Teague grabbed a key and slipped out, his shadow passing by the window. Lord have mercy. Holt slid out of bed and took care of business, washing his face and all while he was in there. He didn't like to think of himself as a vain man, but shit, he hated that mark on his face. "Score, buddy!" Teague had him jumping again as he came in. "They had chocolate, powder, *and* those coconut things." "Oh, hell. We're in high cotton." He chuckled and went to hunt some sweats or something. God knew, Teague wouldn't want to be looking at his old ass. A little light by the bed clicked on and Teague sprawled, laying out a haul of Cokes and water, donuts and peanut butter cheese crackers. "You get in my backpack, there's a pack of cards." "Oh, fuckin' A." He rummaged and found pants and the cards and a pack of smokes for dessert. "There you go." Spreading out a bandana from the pocket of those jeans, Teague opened everything for him, so he didn't have to struggle with one hand. "A feast." He hooted and handed over the cards for shuffling. "You done good, buddy. Thanks." Oh, yum. Sugar. The sharp slap of cards sounded loud as Hell in the oddly quiet room. The only traffic sounds they'd heard was that damned backfire. "What do you want to play? With that hand." "Blackjack? Go fish would be a real bitch." He chuckled at himself, tickled down deep. "Or crazy eights."

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"Oh, let's go with blackjack. We can bet donuts." If there were any left, time they got done chomping them all. Maybe they should bet cigarettes. "Works for me." It wasn't any time at all before they were laughing, Teague with a powdered sugar circle on his chest, him with a smear of chocolate on one arm from tossing the ante. "Oh, I'll see you and raise you a crunchy one," Teague said, chortling as coconut scattered everywhere. "Ooooh. High roller!" He tossed in his bet, stealing bites of coconut. "Open me up a coke?" "Surely." Popping him a can, Teague handed it over, their fingers bumping over the can. Teague gave him a bit of a look, but went right back to dealing out cards to replace the ones they threw. God, he hadn't had so much fun in years, hadn't laughed so hard in a dog's age. He won two hands in a row, hooting over the last of the chocolate donuts. "Oh, come on, share one at least." Teague always was a chocolate hound. So much that he lunged right for one of those donuts, sending them both ass over teakettle, laughing like loons. He dangled the donut over Teague's mouth, teasing for a second before dropping it in. "Spoiled brat." "Umhmm." Those icy eyes twinkled for him, and now, without the hat, he could see the little bits of gray that had snuck into Teague's hair around the temples. "You ain't a bit sorry for it, neither." He shook his head as he laughed, looking at all the changes that the last few years had made. Time'd been kind to the man. Damn kind. "Nope. Not a bit." A tiny bit of chocolate lingered at the corner of Teague's mouth until the man licked it away. "You gonna call?" "Yeah, I'll take pity on you, old man." He didn't even remember what he had. "Old! By six months, you rotten, SOB. I got enough to win the last sugar, I reckon." God, he'd needed this. Just this, laughing and playing. "Six months, one week and four days." And God knew, didn't Teague used to rag him about that, too.

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"Not that much at all, you turd." Teague leaned all of a sudden, catching him in a bonecrunching hug. "Missed you, Holt. I surely did." He shocked himself by squeezing right back, nodding. "I hear you, buddy. I swear to God, I do." They broke apart like guys do, looking anywhere at each other until Teague reached for the cigarettes and lit one up. A stream of smoke flowed out of Teague's nose. "You want one?" "Hell, yes. You can't hog 'em all." He got himself one, let Teague light it, jonesing on the burn. "Well, it ain’t my fault you fell asleep before you finished the last one." Teague paused, looking him over. "You mind if I ask you something?" "Ask away. I ain't got no secrets from you." He didn't, either. Teague knew him - warts and all. "How? No. When? Lord. How did you know, man? That it was someone like Dave you wanted, and not Linda Lawry?" "Junior year. I... You remember when I was working at the dump cleaning the pastures?" He got a nod and kept on. "I found these magazines, and then it all sorta made sense. I mean, I didn't do anything about it, you know? Not until Dave, but I wanted." "Oh." He could see Teague mull that over, chewing on it like Teague tended to. Then he got a nod. "I guess that makes as much sense as anything." He shrugged a little, looked at his hands. "It was real cool, you not thinking bad of me for it. I know lots of folks did." Teague, though, Teague was always his good friend. "No. No, I never thought bad, man. You're my friend. Like that's gonna change." Grinning a little, Teague lit one cigarette off another, blowing out more smoke. "Now that little prick you lived with, that's something else." "Yeah, no shit. I see that fuckhead again, I'll rip him up." His fingers went to the scar on his cheek before he even thought. Bastard could have killed him, taken his eye. His eye for fuck's sake. "Yeah. I guess you did all right..." Teague laughed right out loud. "I can just see it. You popping him a good one. Go you." "I don't remember it at all. Ain't that the shit? I remember the flash and the bang. Then I

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remember the cops tackling my ass and Dave screaming bloody murder." And the blood. Fuck, there'd been blood everywhere. The hand not holding the cigarette covered his, the simple contact soothing something deep down. "Sorry, man. Sorry." "Yeah, me, too." He let himself relax, let all the shit go. "But now I get my life back, get to come home." "There you go." Looking around, Teague stubbed out his cigarette. "We're out of donuts." "Yeah, you got the last one." He brushed off the bed, stretched. "You wanna nap some more, man? I could." He really thought he could, now, sleep deep and hard. "I could go for that." In fact, Teague kinda looked relieved. Of course, they'd done more deep talking shit in the last twenty-four hours than they had in years. That would do it. He nodded, gathered up the cards in one hand and put them on the table. The bed looked a lot more inviting now - rumpled with a splash of powdered sugar. Teague made sure their butts were out good and got up, stretching a little, jeans riding low. "You need the bathroom? I might take a short shower." "No. No, man. I'm good." Teague was a good-looking man. Made him kind of proud, sorta. "Enjoy, buddy." "Thanks." A sideways look came his way before Teague disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click. Holt hummed and settled, snuggling into the sheets with a sigh. He thought he might be able to rest now, without the dreams. *** The shower had helped. The quick jerk off hadn't really, but him pounding his head against the tile, now that was worthwhile. Jesus fucking Christ. Holt had known all those years ago, and Teague had been clueless. If he'd known...well. Hell, as a kid he probably wouldn't have said nothin' anyway. Back then he wouldn't have known how. Now? Well, now Holt was recovering from his first and only love gone bad. That made it impossible. He'd slipped back into bed, ignoring the way that, sound asleep, Holt had sorta... reached

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for him. It probably wasn't him the man wanted anyway. He was probably just a phantom of Holt’s dreams. Now it was about seven a.m. and he was sitting up against the headboard watching Holt. Just watching him sleep. When he'd been a young fool he hadn't felt so bad about it. But there was nothing worse than an old fool. Holt stretched and that casted hand went to moving like Holt couldn't get it comfortable, couldn't get it steady. Feeling like Florence Nightgown, or whatever her name was, Teague tucked his pillow under Holt's arm, elevating it. He'd broken his ankle once, working a mean-assed colt, and he knew how great a soft pillow felt. "Mmm." Holt relaxed, legs shifting, sliding against his a little. Feeling daring as Hell, he stroked the hair back off Holt's forehead, his thumb rubbing over the lines there to ease them away. It felt damn good, to see Holt rest. Holt's skin was smooth, surprisingly warm, and kinda sorta soft. He ran one finger down Holt's unscarred cheek, feeling the stubble there, enjoying being able to do this, just this once. He probably wouldn't ever get the chance again. There was a little dimple at the corner of Holt's mouth. Holt turned toward the touch, a questioning, little sound barely on the air. Damn. Teague withdrew, one last touch sliding across Holt’s chin before he let go. The man didn't need him pawing all over. He really didn't. It wasn't long after that Holt woke up, blinking slow, coming around nice and easy, offering him one of those smiles. "Mmm. Mornin', buddy." "Hey." He kept his voice just as easy, returned the grin. "You slept some. Feel better?" "I do. I needed that." He could tell. There was a light back in Holt's eyes, a twinkle that meant trouble and laughter and a Hell of a lot of fun. Thank God. "So, you ready for sausage biscuits and the road, buddy?" He was ready to get on back home, get Holt settled, and hang out. "You know it." Holt slid out of the bed, morning woody filling those sweats and making a tent. Teague all but moaned, looking away carefully. Goddamn. Goddamn, he'd always liked the look of that body, the way Holt moved. He was a fucking glutton for punishment.

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"Man, I'll be home in time for the bowl games, for Christmas." The bathroom door was pushed closed, the water turned on. Thumping himself, Teague got up and got his clothes on, rummaging through his bag for his toothbrush and all. Then he waited, lighting up a smoke, his hand sliding over the bed sheets and feeling warmth. Holt was whistling Dixie on the way out of the bathroom, dragging a shirt on over the cast, belt still unbuckled. "Bathroom's yours." "Thanks, I had a shower a bit ago, so I'll just go to the bathroom." He'd thump a few more times before he got moving. "'Kay." Holt struggled with the belt and buckle a second, cussing under his breath. "Goddamn, there's all this little shit you forget'll be hard." "Yeah." Taking a deep breath and telling himself down boy, Teague went over to help. "Here you go. All done. Be right back." "Thanks, man." God, he got himself another one of those grins, all crinkled around the eyes and happy. "No problem." He closed himself in the bathroom and shut his eyes a minute, thinking about how he'd been that close to doing something stupid. His fingers were still twitching, for God's sake. Some cold water and a piss helped. He hurried on out, ready to get going home. Holt had them packed up, was looking at himself in the mirror, fingers trailing down that scar. The man still looked like he couldn't quite believe it. "Still stings, huh?" He patted Holt on the back. "I say we get breakfast." "Pulls some. I just... Yeah. Yeah, let's eat. Maybe I can drive some today." "Not with that arm, you ain't. A machinist needs two hands, so you need to heal." There he went, mother henning as Holt would say. Holt's good hand swatted his butt. "At least we got good music and good company, even if I'm a gimp." "We do. You're coming home, buddy. You got no idea..." Shut up, Teague. Just shut up. He got this grin, all teeth. "Well, then, you'll have to tell me everything. I've missed so goddamn much."

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"Yup." He grabbed their bags, heading out to load the truck. "We'll start with how Janie Henry married Lloyd Tucker..." Holt's hoot rang out, echoing between the buildings. "Oh, dear God." "Yep." Man, that was a Mutt and Jeff pairing if there ever was one. "And the widow Lightner started teaching yoga and belly dancing at the old Y." "You're gonna put me off my feed." "You don't want to shake it with Margaret?" Lord, that old bat could make a man want to run for the hills. "I will kick your ass, buddy. Don't think I won't." He got another quick pat, Holt grinning like a fool. "I'd love to see you try," Teague said, grabbing Holt and giving him a noogie, the moment where he teetered on the edge of making a fool of himself passing. "Man, you're picking on a poor, wounded man." They both got to laughing, the sun shining as they hauled into the truck. They laughed all the way into North Carolina, and Teague knew it would be okay. Somehow he'd control the need to jump Holt and hump him like a naughty puppy. Holt was his friend first, and he was coming home. That was all that mattered. *** Teague pulled into the driveway and Holt sat there a second, staring. Home. Jesus Christ. Home. Dawson and Bumper came galumphing over, barking their damn fool heads off. God, Daws was getting old, all gray around the muzzle and... "What did that little prick do to my baby?" Momma came stomping over, wrenching the door open, jeans streaked with paint, hair piled all on top of her head. "Hey, Momma." God, she felt good. Squishy and warm and just like she ought. "Hey yourself. Teague, darlin'. Y'all come on in and don't sit out in the sun like turnips." He could hear Teague laughing, then oofing as she hugged him, too. "I thought I might go on and let y'all catch up."

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"You will not. You get your ass in the house, boy. Daddy's got a brisket on the smoker and you know how he is." He met Teague's eyes, both of them fighting not to laugh. "Yes, ma'am. You add something cold to drink and I'll be in Heaven." Bending, Teague leaned to pet one of the mutts, those old jeans all but splitting down the backside. Good lord. Too bad the man didn't swing his way, because Holt knew a bunch of guys that would jump at that. "There's beer in the fridge. Come here, Holt. Let me see your face." Her eyes filled up with tears as Momma took a hard look. "Lord, lord, lord." "Now, don't get all mushy, woman. Holt, get your ass out here and help me." Lord, Daddy sounded fed up with whatever it was he was doing. "I will beat you like a red-headed stepchild, you evil-tempered bastard. My boy's finally home where he belongs." "Go on, Momma. Let me get my suitcase." He was going to have to find a trailer or something. Soon. "Lord, there we go." Teague helped him with his stuff, rubbing shoulders with him. "They're at it again. Some things never change." "Thank God." He chuckled, shook his head. "You know anybody renting a trailer? A part of a barn? A room? Anything?" "Hell, buddy. I got me a three bedroom, little rancher style place on Mr. Harris’ plot. The old foreman's house. You can come and stay with me." Teague knew his folks, that was for sure. That grin spoke volumes. "Yeah? For real? Shit, don't unload then. I'll help with bills and all." Thank you, Jesus. "I know you'll pull your weight." Clapping him on the back, face split in a smile so wide it looked like those eyes might disappear, Teague put his suitcase right back in the back. "Know you like dogs, too." "You got yourself some puppers?" He headed right around back, where he looked into a face that looked like what he saw in the mirror every morning. "Daddy." "Holt." Those dark brown eyes looked him over. "You kick his ass?" "Yes, sir."

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"Good. You home for good?" "Yes, sir." "Good. Go grab us all a beer." He nodded, stealing a bite of brisket on the way. The kitchen looked the same as always, except for the brand new, lime green paint on the walls. Momma was peeling potatoes, whistling, looking as happy as a pig in shit. "Getting Daddy a beer." "Good deal, son. You want me to make your bed up, or you staying over to Teague's?" He had the good graces to blush, nod. "Teague's. I know you have your sewing shit in there." "Watch your mouth, son. Pop me a top while you're there?" He handed one over, along with the eggs and the mayo and the pickles and the celery and the mustard and the fucking kitchen sink. Teague finally grabbed his own beer, wandering out to check out the smoker while Momma talked his ear off, cussing about Dave. "Look, Momma. It's over. I was wrong. He was a fuckhead. Just drop it." "Jesus Christ, he shot you! How does a man just shoot another man?" He looked over at Momma, shrugging. "He's a fucking Yankee, Momma." "Oh. Right." It just explained it all. "Them Yankees are something else," Teague said from the doorway. "They was rude as Hell." "Yeah." He grinned over, that sight just what he needed. Hell, Teague'd been smiling at him from that doorway for more than thirty years. "You boys come help me, damnit," his daddy yelled from outside. Looked like the old man had been missing him, too. "Right there!" He winked at Momma, kissed her cheek. "Don't you give him a cigarette, now, even if he asks. The doctor said no more."

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"Yes, ma'am," Teague said, eyes twinkling brighter than the Texas sky. "We'll just sit and blow smoke on him." "Smartass." Momma popped Teague with a towel, laughing. "Better than a dumbass, huh Momma?" "No shit. Y'all get." Holt wasn't a dumb man. Him and Teague got to getting. Daddy was peering at the smoker, just a'cussin'. It was such a dear, familiar thing, even if he was wider and more bent now. It was a sign of home, for sure. Lighting up a cigarette, Teague went and plopped in an old chair, legs out to there, crossing at the ankles. "You want me to get some more wood, Daddy?" Daddy grinned over. "Nah. I want that beer." "What, she's got you on no beer, too?" That laugh rang out, infectious and loud, Teague right at home. "Nope. I can have beer, just no smokes." Daddy grabbed the beer and plopped down. "So, how was the drive?" "Good. Better and better the closer we got." Him and Teague, they traveled good together. "Hell, yes. I tell you what, time we got fifty miles from home we were singing and smoking and playing count the cows." Daddy nodded, eyes sliding back to his scar. "That little son of a bitch ain't gonna come hunting you no more, is he?" "Daddy, I beat him near to death. He comes back; he'll be coming for blood." He'd made damn sure of that. "And if he comes, I'll kill him." There wasn't a laugh to be found in Teague's voice or eyes now. Daddy looked over to Teague, nodded. "He ain't welcome here no more."

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"He ain't coming here, y'all. He's wailing over his broke face." Goddamn, he'd hurt the little fuck enough. "We know, son. We just want to know you're safe." Teague was the one to nod now. "You know it. But he ain't the kind to go out of his way." "No. He's a fucking coward." A weak kid, and goddamn if he didn't hate the fact that he was gonna wear his stupidity the rest of his life. "Well. You want another beer." Always one to know when a conversation had gone too far, Teague heaved up out of the chair and sauntered toward the back door. He nodded, leaned back, face to the sun. Lord, lord. "You got what? Five more weeks in the cast?" "Yes, sir." Four weeks, two days. "Sam Dollar says he's got a job for you, soon as you're able. Good money." "Yeah? That works. That works real good." He nodded to his daddy, smiled, pleased to his bones. "Yeah. We know you're a good worker." "Thank you." "Here you go." Teague handed him a beer, popping another one for himself. "The lady of the house says that brisket had best be done in ten minutes." "Oh, lord. That woman." Daddy rolled his eyes, but that smile? Went on for miles. "She's the only one will put up with you," Teague said, teasing for all he was worth. "Is it about done?" "Yep. Go tell Polly to clear the counter and clean my good knife, boys." Holt chuckled, hefted himself up out of the chair. "Isn't that her good knife, Daddy?" "Shit, no. Last time she used it, it slipped and gashed her and she got stitches. She don't use it no more." Good night. Momma was an accident looking for a place to happen.

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"We handled it okay." He gave Teague a look on that one. Hell, stood to reason that he'd been sort of a surrogate son. Man, he didn't know whether to be thankful or jealous. Holt went for thankful, because man, it was Teague. "I bet. Did you hold the rag on her hand, or drive?" Momma could get a little panicky. "I drove. She wouldn't let me touch. Just your daddy. Come on, let's let him get the brisket in peace." One hand landed on his back and stayed, Teague sorta guiding him and holding on. "I can understand that." He found himself leaning toward that touch, Teague's hand surprisingly warm. He thought Teague might have leaned, too, as they went through the door. Warm breath fanned his cheek before Teague turned away, lashes closing on tanned cheeks. God, it was good to be home. *** The best thing about having Holt living with him was the companionship. Teague loved having someone to watch the ballgames with, someone to explode hot dogs in the microwave and just talk about the day with. The worst part was the constant hard on. Really, really constant. Like every night and every day. He'd get up, beat off in the shower after watching Holt make coffee, and then go ride fence. And he'd go to bed aching, knowing Holt was right in the next room. So. He needed to get laid. Bad. Charlie, the kid who worked at Lowe's, was his usual booty call, and when Holt announced he was going to supper at his momma and daddy's, Teague took advantage and called the twenty-something up, inviting him around for a beer. They had a beer, sure, but Charlie wasn't much on the talking, so before Teague could even blink he was getting a fine blowjob, the kid on his knees, mouth working him like a Hoover sucking the chrome off a '57 Chevy. It shamed him, but he was thinking about Holt, his head back and his eyes shut, his thighs and belly hard as boards, his cock throbbing. All he had to do was make sure he didn't shout Holt's name when he came.

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Of course, it wasn't Holt's name he heard when he bucked up and shot, it was his own. His eyes fluttered open and Holt was standing there, wrapped up plate in his hand, eyes just as big as saucers. Oh, Jesus Fuck. Fuck a duck in a raincoat. "Holt...Jesus. Man, I thought you'd be gone a bit." Charlie sprang back, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and Teague tried to pull his jeans back up over his hips. "Yeah. Sorry." Holt blinked again, and then backed away like his ass was on fire, making a beeline for the back door. Shit. Goddamnit. He had to deal with Charlie first. The kid was all stuffed back in his pants, red faced and stammering. "Sorry, hon," Teague said. "I thought he'd be out. You want to do supper next week?" "Sure. I'll call you." Then Charlie was gone, too, leaving fucking skid marks. Sighing, Teague put himself to rights and headed out back. Holt wasn't anywhere to be found, but all he had to do was follow the tobacco smoke out to the barn, Holt out there huffing and puffing, working away, pitchfork flying. "Hey." Goddamn it was awkward. Teague pulled a pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket and lit up. "You okay?" "Yeah. Sorry, man. I. Momma's got the flu and I. Jesus. Sorry. For real." Holt's cheeks were red as fire, cigarette clenched in his teeth. "Yeah. No problem." Hell, at least he'd gotten to come. He laughed, the sound grating a little. "That was a Hell of a thing to walk in on, yeah?" "Yeah. I. Yeah." Holt nodded, hand rubbing his cheek, rubbing that ugly scar that was hiding beneath the heavy beard. "I didn't know. I mean. Yeah." "Oh. That. Well, buddy, you were gone by the time I started tom-catting." Hell, what could he say? I've always had it bad for you? Hell, no. "Oh." Holt hunched a little, shoulders rolling. "You coulda said something, you know. It wasn't like I'd've held it against you."

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"I know that, you fool." Lord. Like Holt would have, even if he was straight. "I just...I didn't want to. Oh, Hell, Holt. I couldn't figure how to." "Yeah. You was always better at keeping secrets than me." His back went up. "Well, I guess so, even if it is a shitty thing to say." Holt glared over at him. "Shittier than pretending that you're all tolerant and understanding and shit when you're on the same fucking side of the fence as me?" "I never lied to you!" He hadn't. And yeah, he'd had to pretend to be understanding when the one man in the world he'd wanted loved someone else. So what? "I've been your friend no matter what." "And when did I say I wasn't your friend, jackass? Just 'cause I walked in on you getting your rocks off, don't mean we ain't friends no more!" Holt was a wide fucker, for all he was on the short side. Teague might be skinnier, but he could loom with the best of them. "I didn't say that neither. Goddamn, you're a prickly motherfucker for someone who never even looked at my ass twice, even back when I was trying to get you to!" "What the fuck are you talking about? I seen it plenty!" Holt growled, shoved him back. "Don't you fucking try to intimidate me, goddamnit, I'll kick that pretty ass of yours." He blinked, blushed a little, backing down. "You looked?" "Shit, Teague. A dead man'd look." Well, Hell. Stymied, he just sorta stood there. Staring. He'd never once thought Holt might have wanted... "You, uh, you need me to apologize to your fella? I will." Holt blushed again, eyes on the ground. "No. No, he left. I apologized and all." He ran his hand through his hair. "You want a beer?" "Yeah." Holt nodded and hung the pitchfork up on the wall. "I brought you some supper." Lord, this was just weird as fuck. "That was right nice of you. So your momma has the flu?" He knew they couldn't act like nothing had happened, but he needed normalcy right that minute.

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"Yeah. She looks like shit. Daddy took her to Doc Fry this afternoon." They tromped back toward the house, Holt lighting another cigarette. He lit one up, too, sucking deep. "Well, shit. We'll have to take her a care package tomorrow. You know how she hates to be sick." "Yeah. I did a grocery run and all, then headed home. I. I'm sorry, man. I shoulda knocked or something." "No. You live here, man." Shit, he didn't want Holt looking to live somewhere else because he couldn't keep it in his pants. "Yeah, but still." Holt grinned over, rolling his eyes. "I still can't believe you got yourself a man and you never did say nothin'." "Charlie?" Teague raised his eyebrows, staring a little. "He's just a kid. He likes to. Well, you know. He ain't serious." "Oh. Right." That blush got even deeper, Holt's hat brim dipping lower. "I never had any luck getting serious." Not when he'd been pining like a fool. "No? I... Well, you know me. Me and Dave were a thing for a long time." Yeah, Dave'd blown in and just knocked Holt down. "I know." Lord, he'd hated Dave even without knowing him. 'Course he really wasn't one to dwell on a day-to-day basis, so he'd gone on with life, hadn't he? "Maybe this is your chance to play. I could introduce you to Charlie." Holt gave him a look, head tilting. "Last guy I fucked shot me in the face. I ain't hunting random trouble." "No, I guess not." He whapped Holt on the back when they got inside, needing the tiny connection. "You'll figure it." He got them both a beer. "I think there's fishing on, if nothing else." "Cool." Holt plopped down in the easy chair. "You can have the sofa. Prolly has your naked butt prints on it." "Teague cooties." Laughing, he sprawled on the couch and flipped the TV on with the remote. Man, there was some boring shit on. "I reckon I'm immune to your cooties by now, but you never know." Holt sprawled, downing the beer.

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Teague stared at the thinnest spot on Holt's jeans. Not that they ever got as thin as his, but there it was. Right there. Things got sort of still and quiet for a minute, then Holt shifted, a real bulge starting to fill those old jeans. His eyes shot up to meet Holt's, his hand going to cover his own crotch, which was shifting and growing. Good lord. Holt's eyes were all dark and focused, looking at him like they'd never seen each other before. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He just didn't want to say anything that might be a major fuck up. Holt's hand was curled around the beer bottle, and Teague'd be damned if Holt's thumb didn't straighten, slide right down what had to be that heavy cock. His breath started coming fast and hard, his chest rising and falling like a man saved from drowning. Teague shifted, straightening one leg to give his prick more room. He watched Holt's tongue slip out, wet those parted lips. Lord. The light caught that hint of wet left behind. His head was gonna explode. He couldn't take it in, Holt looking at him like that. He rubbed himself a little, his hand moving without him even thinking on it. It was like him and Holt were on puppet strings, both of them touching through their jeans. Teague arched up a little, feeling like he hadn't come in weeks, let alone the last hour, his belly sucking in so he could stuff his fingers down the front of his jeans. Holt's groan was fucking loud, those dark eyes fastened on his crotch like a magnet to steel. Afraid to break the spell, Teague didn't say a word, just unzipped his jeans, daring Holt with a look to do the same. Holt worked his belt open one-handed, damn near teasing him with those tighty-whities as the zipper on those Wranglers came down. "Goddamn." He finally broke the silence, arching up into his hand, his cock pushing to be free. "Yeah." Holt shifted, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "You good?" "Uh-huh." That was all he needed to hear to get his cock in his hand, stroking hard. "Wanna see, Holt." He got to watch Holt slip those briefs down, the heavy, thick cock right there. Right fucking there, held in Holt's fingers. He'd dreamed of this. He surely had. Teague started stroking in earnest, really squeezing on the upswing, panting for breath. Just. Damn. He'd gotten some of it wrong. Holt wasn't shy, staring at him, at his cock. The scent of Holt's need made his head swim. The way those muscles worked under that skin-tight t-shirt? That he'd gotten right.

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Teague groaned, spreading his legs so he could plant his feet and push up, get more friction. His mouth watered at the sight of Holt over there, jerking off, in his house. "Jesus." Holt shuddered, hunched over a little, hand moving fast and hard, dragging over that cock. "God." Much as he wanted to watch, he couldn't keep his eyes open when he came. All he could do was throw his head back and grunt, shooting so hard he near bit through his lip. Holt moaned low, the sound making it all that much better, that much more real. When he opened his eyes he wasn't the only one sitting there with a handful of come. Teague blinked, trying to take that in. Holt was sitting there, panting, staring at him and looking a little dazed. "Damn." "Yeah. I..." What in Hell could he say? Thank you for making my fantasy come true? Holt nodded, stood up, holding his jeans up with one hand, heading for the kitchen and grabbing a box of tissues, tossing it over. He took some, wiping up. They settled into this weird silence, the sound of them zipping up kinda loud and grating. "You want to go get some burgers? I'll spring for it." "Sure. Sure, that sounds good." It did, actually. Way better than the pizza he was gonna feed Charlie. "Cool." Holt grinned over at him like a fool, winked. "Let's go. I'm starving." "Yeah. Okay. Let's go." They didn't have to talk on it. Not at all. They could deal with everything else later. *** Jesus fucking Christ on a popsicle stick. Teague. His Teague. Holt just. Damn. He pulled into the driveway after the longest fucking day in the history of days and sort of just sat there.

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Looked at the house. Willed his cock to shut up and back down so he could go in. Six months now he’d lived with Teague. Worked beside the man. Started looking and wanting and needing and telling himself it was a waste of fucking time. Telling himself the man was straight as a yardstick and not interested in his scarred-up ass. Well, except it wasn’t his ass that was scarred, was it? No. Still. What the fuck had they done last night? And when could they do it again? It was the smell of burning meat that got him moving, got him up out of his truck and moving around the back of the house. "Hey, buddy!" Teague smiled at him like he hung the moon. "I got us some t-bones." "Oh, man." He grinned over, tension easing away, just like that. Shit, no matter what, this was Teague. They'd smoked their first one together; they'd gotten drunk for the first time together. They'd figure this out. After Holt kicked that skinny ass for lying all this time, of course. "Yup. Got a six-pack of Shiner and some potatoes. Maybe make some salad?" "Rabbit food. Got it. Let me clean up right quick; I offend myself." "Sure." He got a sideways kind of look. "You're looking right good, though." Oh. Damn. "Be good, man. You'll give me a swelled head." See him. See him try to make with the funny-ha-ha. Or was he flirting? "Well..." Oh, Teague was way better at the flirting. That look liked to burn him like he was the one on the grill. Goddamn. He sorta wanted to lean over and. Goddamn.

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Holt groaned a little, knowing his prick was hard as all get out and pushing up a tent in his jeans. "Gonna make me burn the steaks." Staring right at the fly of his jeans, Teague sighed, shaking his head. "You're the best thing I ever seen. I don't want to mess up, Holt. "We been friends forever, man. Ain't nothing gonna fuck that up." He took a step closer, hands opening and closing. "Turn the steaks." The steaks sizzled away when Teague turned them, dripping juice into the fire. Then Teague just...stood there. Staring. Shit. He didn't know what to do at all. "I want to kiss you. Is that weird?" "No. Damn, I want that, too." Teague just moved, coming right close. "I ain't never kissed a man taller than me." He let his hand slide around Teague's waist, loving the way that felt. "Yeah? Well, now's your chance." Teague let both hands settle on his hips, pulling him a little closer before bending to set that fine mouth to his. His grin sorta slid right off his face, the act of kissing Teague just. Just. Goddamn. Teague moaned, one hand sliding up behind Holt's head to tilt him a bit, and bam. Tongue. Just soft and sweet as you please, Teague was tasting him. Oh. Oh, sweet Jesus. He found himself dragging Teague in close, deep sounds caught right in between them. Last night'd been something, hot and fast and shit, but this kiss rocked him down to his toes. Looked like Teague agreed, because the man moaned for him, trying to crawl right into him. They swayed, all but falling as that kiss went deep and hard and intent. His cock rubbed right against Teague's thigh, his belly giving Teague something to push against. Hell, yeah. He needed him some of that.

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The kiss ended all ragged, both of them reluctant to pull away. "We could put the steaks in the oven." "Yeah. Yeah, buddy. We could... I still need a shower. You could come, too." "I could." He got the biggest, widest grin, and damned if the man didn't squeeze his ass. Fuck, happy looked good on Teague's face. "Get the steaks, yeah? I'll get the water warming." Good lord. Good. Lord. He headed into the little house, working his boots off at the front door and damn near killing himself trying to bend over his hard cock to do it. By the time he'd managed that and working off his jeans and got the water going, Teague was there, watching him from the doorway. Damned if it wasn't weird, being all naked like that. "You're a sight for sore eyes, buddy. I swear, I thought about what you'd look like, but this is better." Oh. Oh, Hell yes. "Yeah? You better let me see, too, huh? Fair's fair." "You bet." Straightening away from the doorframe, Teague started stripping off, showing none of the awkwardness that Holt felt. The shirt with the rolled up sleeves went first, then the undershirt. Then Teague started on those paper-thin jeans. Holt licked his lips, watching, his eyes feeling like they were going to burn right out of his head. When had Teague gone from being a good-looking man to being something to drool over? Oh, Hell, he knew when. When he saw that kid bobbing over Teague's lap and knew the man wasn't off limits anymore. The jeans and boots went the way of the dodo, and Teague stood there, cock hard and straight, flushed a deep red. "Jesus." Holt held one hand out, needing so bad it hurt. "Come here, honey. I gotta feel you." "Yeah." Teague came right to him, rough roper's hand sliding into his, the scars on that thumb rasping on him. They backed up into the tub, managing not to slip and break anything important. Once his back hit the tile, he tugged Teague against him, the beautiful son of a bitch hotter than the

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goddamn water. They rubbed a little, got the feel of where they fit. Yeah. They hit just right, settling into a half hug, half clinch, kissing again. Teague was long where he was wide and it worked out fine, Teague leaning into him, letting him hold them up. He got himself a double handful of the finest ass in Texas, thumbs rubbing and working those tight muscles. Moaning, Teague licked a path through the water on his throat, kissing along his collarbone. The man had some serious talent, searching out sensitive spots and making them sing. He caught himself making these raw sounds that oughta be embarrassing, but fuck, this was Teague. His Teague. The man'd seen him at his worst. "Sweet, Holt. Damned fine." Lord, that voice was rough as a cob, the words falling on his skin like the hot water, each one hitting hard. "Teague." It was the weirdest thing, loving on his best friend and having it be right. "Want you, huh?" "Any way you want me, buddy." Teague moved back a scant inch, soaping him up good, getting the grime of the day right off him. Oh, now. That felt fine. Teague didn't tease either, those hands touching him like Teague meant it, like Holt needed it. Teague got him clean, rinsing him off nice and slow, hands sliding on him everywhere. They smelled like soap instead of metal and smoke now, clean and right. Every so often they'd look at each other, Teague looking plumb gobsmacked and he reckoned he did, too. Then they'd go to touch or kiss or something and things'd straighten right out. The water finally ran them out, going tepid, and they dried off with big old fluffy towels before looking at each other like they didn't know what to do. Then Teague grinned and snapped his ass with the towel. "Last one to the bed is a rotten egg." "Bitch!" He pounced, muscling Teague down the hall, knowing all that son of a bitch's ticklish spots. "Shit! Holt. Stop it!" Laughing like a loon, Teague grabbed him and half danced him into the bedroom. "Make me." He chuckled and kept on, fingers sliding down that flat belly to tickle the sharp bones of Teague's hip. "Oh, you rotten shit." They struggled all over, knocking shit about in Teague's bedroom, wrestling all over.

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Teague toppled him over right onto the bed, both of them bouncing, bodies slapping together. Oh. Oh, shit. The laughter stopped as he arched up and Teague ground down and they both moaned. "Goddamn." Those sweet blue eyes went serious as a heart attack a half a second before Teague kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Holt managed to get his hand around the back of Teague's neck, holding them together as he rocked up, cock sliding on Teague's skin. On fire. Good lord. They both were. Damn. That kiss took him places Dave never had, and they were both on the edge in no time. He could feel it in every tremor that shook Teague's muscles. He kept saying things, telling Teague how good it was, how he needed, the words bubbling out of him. Teague seemed not to mind too much, those eyes watching him like a hawk. Like maybe he was all Teague needed in the world. Teague slipped down a little, got their cocks lined right up better, and oh, he was gonna be a goner. "Soon." He got his hand on Teague's ass, moaning at the feel of it. "Uh-huh. Fuck. Now." Stiff as a board, Teague came for him, come shooting across his belly, hot and wet. Oh, sweet fuck. Holt's eyes rolled like dice, his cock throbbing like he'd been touched by a live wire. "That's it. That's it, buddy. Show me." Teague watched him all through, lower lip caught between those teeth. Goddamn. He shot so hard he thought he'd rattled his bones, hands opening and closing over and over as it hit him. "Oh. Holt..." When he was done, Teague kissed him, slow and sloppy, just deep enough. Yeah. Yeah, buddy. He nodded, kissing Teague right back. "A man could get used to that," Teague said, sounding almost hopeful. Wanting.

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"You know it. A man might could find himself needing it." He sure as shit hoped they were talking the same language. "He could. He surely could. I..." Teague stopped, searching his face with those icy eyes before pressing that bristly face against his neck. "Been waiting a long time for you," Teague finished, all mumbly. Like he hadn't been right there. Well, except for that bit with Dave. "Good thing I figured out it was time to come home, huh?" "You know it, buddy. You know it." The steaks could wait. He figured maybe the awkwardness was over, too. Maybe things were just trying to go his way. *** Life was good. Him and Holt had sort of settled into a routine. Work. Eat. Watch the game. Fuck. Every so often Teague would see Holt watching him like a dog tilting his head over a chicken, but Holt never said nothing, so he figured it must not be all that important. If it was, Holt would say. They were friends, weren't they? They'd been wandering around the house, sorta restless and crazy, so Teague had popped Holt's butt and said, "Let's go down to the bar." So there they were, lifting a few and laughing, really stepping out for the first time since Holt had found his way home. Teague felt a little like he was showing Holt off, and that was a fine thing. Leastways until Charlie showed up, bouncing like a puppy. "Teague! Hey, man. Been a long while." Holt went a little pink, nodding once to Charlie and sorta watching him. "Hey, kiddo." Well, that was weird, wasn't it? Teague clapped Charlie on the back. "How you been?" The kid gave him a once over that wouldn't quit. "Been thinking." That little pink went real pink, but Holt didn't say a word, just sat there and stared into his beer. "Uh. Well. That's nice, honey." How on earth was he going to get out of this one?

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"There's Bill and them. I'll go say hi; let y'all catch up." Holt grabbed his beer, headed across the bar, just like that. Teague blew out a breath. He didn't want to tell Charlie about him and Holt. Not because he was ashamed or nothin', but because Charlie was a huge gossip. And it wasn't his story to tell alone, neither. "I'm out with Holt, Charlie. You know, for a beer. I'm not looking tonight." "No? You think you'll be free tomorrow, man? We never did get to finish what we started the other night..." Teague felt his cheeks heat. "I don't think so, honey. It's real nice of you to ask, but, well...I uh." "Oh, man. I didn't make your friend pissed, did I? I'll apologize, man. For real." "Nah. But I think I need to cool it, you know?" Thank God Charlie was a basically decent kid, with some manners. "Well, you need me, you know where to find me. I'm always available to play." Yeah, somehow Teague didn't see Holt being real sympathetic about playing. "Sure." Teague buried his nose in his beer. Man, he needed to get Charlie a man. Like, soon. Holt had himself a shot or two with Bill, then headed back over, a little wandery. "Hey, buddy." "Hey. You ready to head out?" He wasn't in the mood to sit under scrutiny. Which was what it felt like he was getting. "Yeah. You... you ready, too?" "You bet. We can have another beer at home." His hands curled into fists so he could keep himself from slipping a hand into Holt's back pocket. "Works for me." Holt handed his keys over without a bit of fuss. "Bill says he's thinking about putting together a baseball team in the spring." "Yeah? You thinking of going in?" That would be cool. Even if he didn't play he could watch Holt in baseball pants. "Maybe. Could be fun. I haven't played in a hundred years." They slid into the truck, Holt's fingers brushing his thigh. "How's your friend?"

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"Oh, he seems fine. I think I let him down easy enough." He spread a little, turning the key in the ignition. "My nights are busy." He hadn't known that Holt was tense until the man relaxed, that touch on his leg getting firmer. "Yeah? He took it okay?" "Seemed to. I didn't tell him about you and me, now. He's got a big old mouth, and we don't need to borrow trouble. But I told him I was off the market." "Yeah, if I remember correctly, you were all about that big old mouth..." "Hey, don't knock it." He put his hand over Holt's, sliding it up that thigh. "I like yours better." And Hell, all he'd had of it was kisses. "Now, you don't know that. I might be terrible, you haven't tried." "Honey, the way you kiss? You're going to knock my socks off." He thought he might could handle trying right now. "I'll have to make sure you take 'em off before I go down on you." Holt's hand slipped up some, fingers sliding up his seam. He grunted, his hips rolling. "We ought to get, huh?" "We ought. I want you, yeah?" Holt's eyes looked like coals, staring over at him. "Uh-huh." He got them moving, trying to concentrate on the road when all of his focus was on Holt. Jesus Christ. Holt wasn't helping a bit, hands exploring, soft, happy little sounds filling the truck bed. "Damnit, Holt." He couldn't work much growl into it, though. Not when his cock was thumping in his jeans. Holt, damn the man, just chuckled. "You don't scare me, buddy." "Asshole." He hit the gas a little more. He'd only had a couple, and he wasn't gonna run off the road. He just needed to get home. "Yep." Unrepentant prick. "Good thing you like me, huh?" "You know it." There. The ranch gates appeared like magic, and Teague pulled around to his little house, spraying gravel when he parked. Then he reached over and jerked Holt up for a kiss.

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Those lips were smoky with whiskey, and a little bitter with the beer, but hot. Goddamn. Holt's hand cupped his cock, too, heel of that hand rubbing and working him right through his jeans. "Fuck," he said against Holt's mouth, his hand cupping the back of Holt's neck to hold the man still for another kiss. "Works for me." Holt groaned into his mouth, that callused hand working his jeans open, fishing for his prick. "Oh, God." Just the thought of actually fucking Holt, or of Holt fucking him, made him rock and push and try to get out of his jeans with the power of his will alone. He didn't care which way it went, top or bottom. He just knew he had to have it. "Uh-huh." Holt tried to slide around the steering wheel and the horn went off, making them both jerk and grin. "Inside, buddy." The only way this was gonna work was horizontal. They broke apart, racing for the door, grunting when they smacked together inside. Okay, so. Not horizontal, but good. Damn. Holt went up on tiptoe, pushing hard against him and kissing him like there was no tomorrow. Teague took that kiss and ran with it, smacking them back against the door, pressing hard against Holt. He was still thinking about cocks and asses and how tight Holt would be... Holt's hands wrapped around his ass and squeezed hard enough to bruise, tugging him into Holt's strength, over and over. "God. Honey." He wasn't gonna make it to even get his jeans off. He was gonna blow like a volcano. Holt sunk right down, hands scrabbling at his buckle, those kiss-swollen lips open. "Oh. Oh, Lord." Looked like he was going to get to test that mouth after all. "Uh-huh. We can do the other later." Holt grabbed his cock, tugged it right out of his briefs, and brought the tip to that amazing goddamned mouth. Oh, Hell yes. Holt made this sound like the man'd just been offered Heaven, those big, brown eyes staring up at him as that mouth went down. That was like nothing else he'd ever felt, and

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he had a pretty damned good basis for comparison. He rocked, letting Holt take him in, and he kept his damn eyes open with a show of will alone. His hips were taken in those rough old hands, Holt finding them both a rhythm, encouraging him to rock deep, take Holt's mouth like he meant it. Jesus, no wonder that little prick that shot Holt didn't want the man to leave. That tongue was. Damn. "Holt." It was all the warning he could give before he just damned near exploded, coming hard, shouting loud. Only then did Holt's eyes drop closed, the man drinking him down, cleaning him with that hot tongue. Shit. He was shaking like an aspen up in Colorado. In the winter. He stroked Holt's cheek. "No one else even holds a candle, honey." His cock came free with a pop and Holt turned to kiss his palm. "You taste fine, Teague." "I..." He yanked Holt to his feet to kiss the man, his hand closing over Holt's cock through the jeans. Oh, that grunt tasted fine. Holt rippled, bucking up toward his touch. "More. Shit, lover. I need." "Want to return the favor." Hell, he'd been told his mouth was magic, hadn't he? His knees creaked when he dropped, but his fingers worked just fine when he got Holt out and into his hands, making sure he skinned those jeans down far enough to cup the heavy, fuzzy balls. Holt tried to spread for him, knees bending a little to get more pressure, a firmer touch. "Mmm." That was the stuff. Teague shifted, licking along Holt's cock, his hand moving gently on those balls, rolling them. Holt's hand brushed across his head, knocked his gimme cap right off, and pushed into his hair. That was his cue to take all of Holt in that he could. He closed his lips around Holt's straining flesh and sucked as strong as he could. That muscled, broad body started rocking, fucking his lips, words pouring down around him. Teague took every move, every thrust, loving it. He watched that fine man, locking eyes with Holt when he looked down, just letting him know all he'd never said. Holt nodded once, then shot, just like that, filling his mouth with bittersalt heat. He licked and sucked until Holt squirmed, probably too damned sensitive to take any more. Then he backed off and smiled up. "Better?"

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"Uh-huh. Goddamn." Holt looked fucking dazed. Just like Teague felt. "Damn.” "Come on. There's hot water waiting for us." "Yeah. And a cold beer. That piss at the bar was too warm." Looked like the crisis was averted, far as the night was concerned. Pretty soon they'd have to talk about shit like Charlie. But not tonight. *** Christ almighty, his fucking head was killing him. He'd tied it up with some mouthy son of a bitch at the shop, bastard going on and on about filthy queers and Jews and goat ropers and this and that. It just pushed him too far and he'd growled and the little fuckhead had taken a swing and la-di-da. One mouthy little fuckhead with a broke jaw and him with a bloody nose and three stitches over his eye. It seemed pretty fair. Holt got to keep the job. "Hey, honey. I'm home..." He stopped as a hand flashed out, slapped him across the mouth. "What the Hell are you doing, son?" Oh, fuck. Momma. "Fighting at work? Lucille up at the hospital called me at home, told me you were brawling like poor white trash in the parking lot with Susie Miller's piece of shit boy? I raised you better!" He was gonna kill Teague for letting her in. Teague was looking hangdog, sitting in the kitchen, arms crossed out over his chest. "He was being a little prick, Momma." "Look at his momma. Of course he was." She glared at him, rolled her eyes. "You're going to look like Frankenstein." "Especially since you slapped him, lady." Oh, Teague was cruising for a bruising. "I will kick your ass, Teague Harrison, do not even begin to think that I won't." Momma

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turned on Teague, eyes flashing. "We could always get back to our original conversation." "What?" Those blue eyes went wide and innocent like the baby Teague never had been in his life. "I didn't think so." She turned back, pinning him with a glare. "Does it hurt?" "It ain't bad." Only like a son of a bitch. "Well, your momma's here to nurse you, so I'll just go feed the critters." Oh, the fucking coward. "I don't need nursing." Momma rolled her eyes. "No, and Teague don't need to feed for another hour, but Christ knows you two can't handle one old woman." "Oh, hush now." Grinning, Teague detoured from the door and went to the fridge. "You want some more tea, ma'am? Holt? Beer or tea?" "Beer." "Tea. He's got pain pills." "Goddamnit, Momma." "Watch your mouth, son." "You can have tea now." Teague gave him a look that said beer later. "Thanks, Teague. Did you want to do anything but yell at me, Momma?" "Smartass. I brought a crockpot full of chili." Oh, he did love her. "Cornbread?" "Yes, you spoiled shit. And a carrot cake." She grabbed a smoke from his shirt pocket, rolled her eyes. "You worried me." Teague grabbed one, too. Jesus, what was it, smoke Holt's cigarettes day? "Y'all need a light?" "Yeah." Winking, Teague held that cigarette up to those amazing lips and kept it there. Teasing him.

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He fumbled for his lighter, ignoring Momma's wicked laughter. Lord, lord. If Momma found them out, he'd never have a minute's peace. He lit Teague up, then Momma, and Teague gave him a wink. "I'll set up supper." "I'm going to go. I'm picking your daddy up and we're going to the steakhouse and then to the dance hall." She looked him over again. "Be careful, baby, huh? You get all scarylooking and Teague will frown." "Hush, Momma." "I'd never frown at how he looks." Those blue eyes twinkled. "He's never less than perfect in my eyes." What had he and momma been talking about? Lord. Momma's eyes got all sparkly and weird and she nodded. "It's about goddamned time, boys. Enjoy your chili." Oh, God almighty. She stubbed out her cigarette and went, leaving him and Teague alone. And sort of staring. "Hey." Teague had the longest column of ash he'd ever seen. "Hey." The cigarette shivered and the ash fell. Teague grinned. "So, your momma and I had a talk." "Yeah, I figured. She seemed pleased." Lord, save them. "She did." Teague got him a beer. "She also bitched about you so don't think you've heard the last. "About the fight, or the whole taking up with my best friend thing?" "About the fight. She doesn't like you getting hurt. Neither do I." Reaching out, Teague stroked his cheek. "It just went on and on, honey. The little fucker wouldn't shut up, and then he got all up in my face." His eyes drooped and he leaned into the touch. "Hey, you know I got your back on that. I just hate to see you get banged up. You been through enough." Lord, when Teague leaned down and kissed his scar? Shit. He moaned a little, hands sliding around Teague's waist. "I ended up with you, honey." "You did. And if this is what it took to bring you home, I can love it. Even if I want to kill that little prick, still." He got a grin, right against his mouth.

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"I'd pay to see that." He licked Teague's bottom lip, then leaned in, kissing good and hard. "You say the word and I'm on my way to Yankeeland." Not that Teague was moving away now, no sir. The man was all but crawling into him. "There ain't nothing up there for you." But there was a lot for the man to do right here. "No?" One big hand cupped him through his jeans. "What have I got now? Something to keep me interested?" "I sure as shit hope so." His thighs went tight and his cock sort of jerked. "Honey, I've never been so interested." Teague rocked him, fingers stroking through the denim, giving him some damned amazing friction. Holt swayed a little, the action making his head throb. "Let's take it to the sofa, yeah?" "Oh, shit, honey. I didn't think." Grabbing his hand, Teague tugged him over to the couch, pulling him down. "You need an ice pack?" "No. I need you." And shit, wasn't that getting easier to say. "I'm right here." Settling right in, Teague sat next to him and put an arm around him. "Yeah." He sorta smiled, leaned over into Teague's warmth. Man, with Dave, it would have been screaming and fussing and drama. This worked for him. Lord knew it wasn't like Teague was perfect. The man snored, he rolled the toilet paper under, and he left cigarette butts on the porch rail. But the man was rock solid, had his back every time. He ran one hand down along Teague's leg, rubbing a little. "Momma wasn't too hard on you, was she?" "Hell, she was sweet as pie." One hand closed over his, Teague putting it where it needed to go. "She's happy for us." He had himself a great momma. "She should be. I've got a powerful jones for you, buddy." Kissing his throat, Teague leaned a little harder, just humming for him.

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"Good." Oh. Oh, man. He liked that. Holt lifted his chin, swallowing, throat working under Teague's lips. "Mmmhmm. We're together now." Just like that. Teague had proven it over and over, too, the last couple weeks. "Yeah." Teague had the finest cock, hard and heavy, hot even through the jeans. Teague helped a little then, unzipping so he could feel that cock skin on skin. Thick and good, it filled his palm, Teague's blood rushing under the skin. "You want in me, lover?" He rubbed Teague up and down, palm sliding over that delicate skin. "God, yes." He swore he actually saw Teague's eyes roll back in his head. Yeah, someone liked that idea. "I think we ought to then. Bed." He didn't want to worry on tumping off the sofa. "Bed," Teague agreed, getting to his feet and holding down a hand for him. He took that hand, let Teague haul him up off the sofa and against that sweet, lean body. "Come on. We need some slick stuff and some... yeah. Uhn." That last little sound was too fucking cool. "Mmmhmm." He was all about the getting them some. They headed down the hall, hips bumping each other every so often. Teague pulled him into the bedroom and pushed him toward the bed, wandering over to get something out of the dresser. "Lube. Very important." "Uh-huh. You..." Shit, how did you ask your best friend if he was clean? "You think we need rubbers?" There. Subtle. Fucking go him. Teague looked over, then at the lube in his hand. "You want to wait until we get tested, I can get that. I mean, I've been around. I won't squawk."

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"You say you're clean, that's good enough for me, Teague." "Then let's do it." Teague gave him that rock solid look. Yeah, the man would never put him in danger. "I'm all yours." He pushed his jeans off, his briefs, spreading a little. "Oh, honey. I gotta get me some of that." Teague came right over, the lube dropping next to him on the bed. "It's been a long time since I did, huh?" "Yeah. God, yeah." Teague grinned. "I'm glad it's with me." "Me, too. Come on, now. Love on me." His fingers traced that grin. "Okay." Just that easy, Teague came down beside him, hands slip-sliding over his skin, tracing the path of muscle and hair. He turned toward that touch, jonesing on it. Felt damn good. "God, I love the way you look." The bruises got extra special attention, Teague kissing each one carefully. "You just got a thing for men with scars." At least Holt sure hoped so. "Mmmhmm. Means you've lived. Means you're still here." Then Teague lifted his balls and slid those rough fingers beneath, circling his hole. "I am." His hole went tight, that touch sending shivers through him. "Sh. Just breathe, honey. Just breathe for me." Leaning, Teague got the little tube of lube and opened it, the touch coming back softer, slicker. Holt leaned until he could beg a kiss, let that sweet mouth drive him as high as that touch would. Teague tasted him something fierce, and one finger slid right inside him, pushing in and out. Oh, that's what he was talking about. He opened up, moaning into Teague's lips. He felt that mouth shape into a smile, and Teague worked him, another finger sliding in to stretch him. It sent shivers up and down his spine. "All full of you." Holt was aching, hips not sure if they wanted to buck or roll or what. "Not yet. But you will be." Teague chuckled a little, fingers moving, driving him crazy when they hit that spot deep down in.

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"Teague!" His feet pulled up back toward his ass, pushing right back into that touch. "Again." "Like this?" That spot got hit over and over, just making him holler and shake. "Need. Need. Lover, please." He forgot all about hurting, about thinking, about anything but Teague touching him. "Now. Yeah." The fingers slid out, leaving him feeling empty long enough to give him a twinge, and then Teague's cock was pushing at him, hot and wide and damp. "Yeah." The burn made his breath catch in his chest, made his heart pound. Teague. It was Teague inside him. Teague above him and around him and in him, and oh, that face. Teague stared down at him, those eyes like blue lasers. Holt ran out of words, hand reaching up to cup one of Teague's cheeks, thumb brushing Teague's lips. Teague kissed his finger, loving him, hips starting to rock gently, the feeling growing and growing. God help him, he was lost. It was all he could do to move with Teague, squeeze that pretty cock buried in him, make Teague feel as much as he was. "Oh, God, Holt." Teague sounded like he was strangling. He heaved above Holt, rocking harder, giving him everything. "Yeah. Come on, honey. Bring me with you." "Gonna." Those eyes went wide, Teague losing the rhythm altogether, hips jerking like crazy. That heavy cock throbbed in him, wet heat filling him when Teague shot. He groaned, taking himself in hand, stroking good and hard, coming after only a couple tugs. "Oh. Damn, honey. You. Wow." Teague grinned, half happy, half rueful. "Us, huh? That was. Yeah." He tugged Teague down, took himself a kiss. That man could flat out kiss, even when he was getting heavier and sounding sleepy as Hell. Teague tasted him long and slow and deep, making it worth every bruise he'd earned at work. Holt grinned, hand sliding down Teague's spine, easing the sweet son of a bitch into sleep.

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Damn, he loved this man. He surely did. *** The little gray mare worked out under him like a dream girl, smooth and sweet. She cut the steer he wanted out of the herd with little more than one stride, and then she started working him. Every cue of his knees and thighs shivered right through her, and Teague knew he had a winner. She would sell like nothin' goin', and he'd have him some ready cash, which was good. He wanted to see if Holt wanted to throw in with him on a little place of their own. At the rate the old man Tanner’s family was going, Teague would never own that ranch. He finally gave the signal for the mare to step out and let the steer go back to the herd, turning her toward the barn. Holt was standing there, eyes burning out from under the brim of that hat. Teague could damn near feel that look on him, like Holt was touching him. Shit, that man. God Almighty. "Hey, honey. What do you think of my little lady?" "I think you look fine up there, cowboy." Mmmhmm. That was all growl and want, wasn't it? "Yeah?" He squeezed a little, letting the mare dance, letting Holt see all the muscle it took to stay in place. "Yeah." Goddamn, he could see Holt's need in the way that belly rippled. "I have to brush her out..." He couldn't leave the horse all sweaty and blowing, no matter how much he wanted to jump Holt now. "'Course you do. I'll help out." Holt grinned, and he'd be damned if that smile wasn't predatory. "And watch you." "I can handle that." He let Holt get the gate, but then he slid off the mare and walked her out, heading for the barn. Those eyes were on his ass, he knew it. Man, once Holt decided that they were solid, the man didn't hold back a bit. It was amazing. Teague gave his ass a little extra swing on the way, knowing he had that hole in his jeans just waiting to eat up his back pocket. "Goddamn." Holt's voice slid up his spine like a cold chill.

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"You okay, honey?" He grinned to himself, his cock really perking up. "More than. Just gonna die of blue balls from watching you." "No dying. I need you around." He cross tied the mare and took off the saddle, soothing her when she danced. He was a little jerky. "I'll clean up your tack; you get with the brushing." Holt's hands were on his ass, squeezing just a second. Teague went up on tiptoe, gasping a little. Damn. "You'll be washing my jeans, you're not careful." "We got a washing machine." Hot lips brushed against the back of his neck. "Mmm. Sweet. Holt." He dropped the currycomb and grabbed the hand that slid around his waist and shoved it down over his zipper. "You're supposed to be working." Fuck, that hand was moving, pushing against his cock, thumb working the shaft. "Uh-huh. And you're making it so easy." He leaned right into that touch, humming at how good it felt. "I'm supposed to make things hard, Teague." Oh, bastard, chuckling at him. "That, too." What was the question? Damn. Yeah. He rubbed, needing more friction. "Gonna unzip you. I need to feel." Holt eased the zipper down, fingers protecting his prick all the way down. "Oh, God. You're always doing for me." The mare had cooled down. She had water. He could brush her out after. "I wasted a long time, lover. I ain't wasting no more." Those rough, old fingers were gentle as all get out, stroking him, loving him. Turning slowly, Teague cupped Holt's cheeks and took a kiss, needing to touch back. Oh, now. Holt moaned, tongue sliding to touch his, to taste him. He grabbed Holt's ass, pulling and squeezing. His cock slid through that fine fucking hand, his balls rubbing insanely against his jeans. "Watched you riding. Never seen anything so fine. Never."

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He slipped one hand around and struggled to get Holt's jeans open, working the zipper down. Oh, there. Now they were both out in the open. "Fuck, yeah." Holt's mouth met his again, their cocks pushing together, hot and wettipped. That was the hottest damned thing. He arched into it, needing more friction, more sensation. He pulled Holt into him, kissing the man hard. The sun poured through the barn, the smells of hay and sweet feed and horses just everywhere, slowly being taken over by the scent of their musk. "Love the way you touch me. " See him. See him give Holt a lot of positive reinforcement. That was what a man was supposed to do when he didn't want the good things to stop. Holt grinned, tongue tracing his lips. "Good. I want to do it a lot." "Mmmhmm. Over and over." He got more skin bare, both of them moaning and rubbing to beat the band. Holt's cock was weeping for him, the heavy shaft throbbing against his fingers. "Fine fucking cowboy." He pressed the end of his thumb against Holt's slit, pushing back and forth just a tiny bit. He knew how that felt, knew how it was almost too much and not enough. "Goddamn." Holt went up on his toes, arching right up into him. Fuck, that was hot, the way Holt needed. He did it one more time, just to see the shiver. Then he pulled them together and stroked both of them, grunting at how good it felt. Fucking amazing. One of Holt's hands cupped his ass, the other joining his, squeezing him, dragging over them both. They went back and forth, almost like a competition, stroking and stroking until he knew he was gonna go off like a bottle rocket. "Come on, darlin'. Please. Please, I need you to." "Yeah." That was it. That little pleading look, that tug...Teague came hard, his body shaking with it, his breath coming in great gasps. Holt followed a couple of strokes behind, entire body shuddering as the man shot. Teague leaned on Holt, loving on him, hugging on him a little. Damn, he'd needed that, and he hadn't even known it. "Still need to brush her out."

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"Yeah. I'll help out. In a second." Holt grinned, lips brushing his jaw. "Nah. Just go on and get something started for supper, huh? I've worked up a powerful hunger." "Oh. Let's make burgers and queso." Holt winked at him, wet fingers tickling his hips. "We can run to the Dairy Queen after for dessert." "That sounds just fine. Just fine." He kissed Holt hard. Yeah. He loved this whole living together thing. "Mmm. You get to work, buddy. I'll heat up the grill." Holt grinned at him like a newborn fool and then he got a long look at that fine ass bebopping out the barn door. Damn. He needed to hurry up and do a good job grooming. He needed to get up there and have some more of that. Teague whistled, brushing out the mare, really giving her an apology for doing...that kinda right there. Then he put her up for the day and gave her some sweet feed and headed on up to the house. There was a car sitting around the side of the house, not someone's he knew. Hell, that little pansy-assed car wouldn't be driven by anyone he knew. He could hear voices, too. Holt's loud and sorta... scared? Scared. That kicked his ass into gear, sending him running into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him. "Teague, get out." Holt was standing there, a little Saturday night special held to one temple by that little fuckhead that had stolen Holt away to Yankeeland. "Like Hell I will. This is my fucking house." He tore his eyes away from Holt's face, looking at the once pretty little shithead. "Get the fuck out before I stick that gun up your ass." "You think I won't shoot you?" The prick was crazy as a bedbug, eyes twitching like a goddamn junkie. "I told him I wouldn't let him leave me." "Yeah?" He edged around, moving into the room where he would have more space. "Well, guess what? He did. And he's moved on, son." "Come on, Holt, baby. Get in the car. We'll go and your old friend won't get hurt." "I ain't getting in a car with you, man. You shoot me, Teague'll rip your fucking arms off."

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"Oh, I'll just start with the arms." White rage was building in his chest. If that little fuck so much as displaced Holt's hair, he was gonna kill him. Holt's eyes met his across the way, a fucking world of meaning in that look. "Sounds like a plan, buddy." "You two shut up!" Man, the little fuck could scream. "What's the matter, honey? You not liking seeing him with me? I can give him shit you never dreamed of." Come on, Teague thought. Gimme an opening. "He's a man, through and through. Loves me like I never thought I would be." Holt was right with him, tense, tight, pushing. "You fucking slut." The little motherfucker cocked the pistol, just shaking. "I'll kill you. I swear to God I'll kill you if you don't shut up!" "You want to kill someone, kill yourself, you worthless worm." All he needed was that pistol to waver, to get away from Holt's head. He moved closer, hands open and ready at his sides. The pistol swung toward him and Holt moved, quick as a snake, shoving Dave to the side, fist slamming down onto the thin wrist. Teague heard the crack and the scream, then Dave whipped the pistol up, cracking Holt under the chin. No. No hurting Holt. Teague dove in low, taking the guy down against the kitchen counter. One quick blow had the gun spinning away, and then he was straddling the little fuck, hitting him over and over and over again. Holt grabbed the pistol, then came to stand beside him, breathing a little hard. "You want me to call the police, or are you gonna kill the little fuck?" The sound of his punches was getting a little soggy, but Teague wasn't ready to let up yet. "Gonna kill him." "Okay." Holt went and plopped down on the sofa. "Son of a bitch hit me." That had him dropping the front of whatshisname's shirt and motoring over to look at Holt's chin. "We need to take you to the doctor?" "Nah. Nothing's broke." Holt reached up for him. "We need to call the cops, honey. Make them put him away so I don't have to worry about him scaring Momma." "Oh." Right. Police. The little shit who was moaning on his floor. Teague kissed Holt, ignoring his own bloody hands. "You sure you're okay?"

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"Yeah." Those eyes cut down to the fuckhead Yankee, a low growl sounding. "He coulda hurt you, Teague." "No. He coulda hurt you." He stiffened, looking back at Dave, thinking he might oughta kill the man before they called the cops. "No. Not again. Little shit. He'd've had to kill me this time." "Well, he didn't." Thank God. His hands were starting to shake now, thinking about that gun pressed to Holt's head. Teague rumbled, trying to get up and go finish the little fuck off. "You sit. Right now we just protected us, yeah? You don't need trouble." Holt pulled out his cell, called 911 first, then his momma, because God knew that little Sandra bitch in dispatch would be on the horn to her. Teague sat, clenching his hands together, listening to Holt murmur, listening to that Dave fucker moan. He was gonna...he needed a cigarette. Where had he left them? The phone clicked off, Holt right in his face all of a sudden, tongue fucking his lips in a hard, needy kiss. Oh, fuck yes. He kissed Holt with all he had, everything in him needing to touch, to feel that Holt was whole and good and right. "Love you. You hear me, Teague?" The words were growled into his lips right before Holt pulled away, moving to kick the shit out of the asshole who was trying to crawl to the door. He took that like a blow to the breadbasket. God, he loved that man. So much. *** The goddamn police came and went. Momma and Daddy came and went. Then a couple three guys from the feed store, Jim Hanson from the Stop and Go, and Chuck Williams from down the road. Holt was gonna blow a gasket. He pulled a beer out of the fridge, glaring across the look-through and into the front room. Come on, Teague. Tell 'em to go.

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Teague was smiling, but it was all through his teeth. Holt could tell. The man was gonna go off like a rocket, just like he was. Finally, finally, Teague stood and stretched. "Y'all, we appreciate you coming by, but we need to hit the sack. You go on home now." Thank God. He did his best to nod and shake and murmur thanks and when Teague locked the front room, his goddamn knees went weak. He coulda lost Teague. That little fuck could have shot him, shot either one of them. Goddamn. "You gonna make it?" Teague asked, when the sound of truck engines faded out in the distance. "Not if you don't come over here to me, no." Teague came right to him, arms closing around him, holding him up. "Love you." "Good." He knew it, but it didn't suck to hear it. Holt leaned into Teague, just took all the comfort that he'd needed for hours now. Kisses pressed against his throat, his cheek, Teague giving him what he needed. What he thought Teague might need, too. "You're okay. Gonna be fine." "Yeah. Goddamn." What if Dave'd hurt Teague? "Stop it. Stop it. I can see it in your eyes. I'm fine." Teague cupped his cheek, thumb stroking. "When did you get to know me so good?" He leaned into that hand, let Teague touch his scar. "A lifetime ago. Hell, you've always been more worried for me, in all the scrapes we've gotten into." "You're..." He blushed hard, met those icy blue eyes. "Shit, you're mine, Teague. I didn't know it, but you are." Nodding, Teague looped both arms around his neck. "Been yours forever. Just been waiting on you."

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"Good." He leaned up, mouth meeting Teague's in a kiss that rocked him right down to his toes. Teague kissed him like a starving man, mouth opening his, tongue pushing in. Those hands cupped his cheeks, holding him there so they could kiss and kiss until his lips tingled like he'd been eating jalapeno jelly out of a jar. He didn't hold back at all, he just pushed into the kisses, wrapping his hands around Teague's hips and pulling the man in close enough air couldn't slide between. One of Teague's legs wrapped around his hip, holding tight so Teague could hump him. Jesus, yes. He grabbed hold of that leg, tugged it higher as they started to move, thrusting together. They hadn't even got their clothes out of the way and they were both close to blowing. He could feel the tremors that wracked Teague's body, the desperate need in Teague's hands and mouth. "Mine. Mine, Teague. Gonna keep you." He bit Teague's bottom lip, tugged it a little. "Yours. And you're mine, buddy. All mine, now. No more fuckhead. Just you and me." Teague licked at his upper lip, panting for him. "Yeah. Need you." He worked Teague's jeans open, hunting that heavy cock. "Uhn. Holt. Lover." Teague rolled those hips for him, really getting into the groove. He wasn't going to be able to hold out, no way, not with Teague's scent in his nose, that tongue fucking his lips. One hand closed over his trapped cock, squeezing hard, Teague really giving him something to feel. His thighs went tight and they just went to town, humping and thrusting, riding each other hard. Goddamn. Close. Teague came first, yelling his damned fool head off, rocking like crazy. Come covered his hand, his jeans, Teague shooting forever. He wasn't far behind, heat flooding him like he'd stepped into a sauna. Yeah. Yeah, just like that. "Goddamn, lover." Teague leaned on him, lips hot as a brand on his neck. "I like it when you get all possessive." "Can't lose you now, huh? Not right when we got ourselves set to right." Not now that he knew where he belonged. "Not gonna, Holt." Teague gave him a kiss that felt like a promise. "Not ever gonna let you go again." "Then we're good." Down to the bone good. Solid as a rock. Sometimes you really could go home again. And stay.

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*** Holt grabbed a longneck from the cooler, whistling up the horses as he headed out to help Teague with the evening feeding. There was a blue norther threatening, the sky gray as a dove's wing, and he was sorta looking forward to chili weather coming around again. "You want me to water or muck, buddy?" He goosed Teague's fine, fine ass on his way by, finger catching a hole near one pocket. "Go ahead and water. I started mucking, so I might as well go on." He got a look, those pretty ice eyes twinkling. "Waited just long enough." "You know it." He offered his beer over to Teague, waiting until the man drank deep before smiling over. "Got a raise today. Mr. Dillard made me foreman over day shift." "No shit? Damn, that's fine." Teague started to whistle, mucking with reckless abandon, and that told him Teague had something to say, too. He kept his tongue, waiting for Teague to fess up. He'd lived with the man long enough to know he just had to be patient. Or grab the man's ass real good. Waiting long enough not to spoil his news by trumping it, Teague finally came over and leaned on his back. "Old man Tanner is going to live with Cathy, you know, his youngest daughter? He says if I can get ten thousand down, he'll set the land up as some kind of fancy deal, but what it comes down to is... well. It's ours." "No shit?" Holt stood there, hose just dangling in his hand. Theirs. Goddamn. Just. Goddamn. "Yup. The big house and all. The kids don't want it, say I can have it with their blessing. Which, considering how much they could get for it..." Teague went all red. "They said I'd been like a son to him." "You've been good to him." He put the hose down, took the pitchfork from Teague, real careful, and then just hooted, swinging his lover around. "Oh, buddy. Good for you. Honest to God. Good for you." "Good for us. We got us a place, Holt. A real place. With our names on the deed. Because you're on there, too." Teague kissed him, loving on him something fierce. He nodded. They'd been putting all their extra cash in together, that ten grand was both of theirs, saved and saved. "Just think of all we can do, Teague. We can run them horses like you want."

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"We can set you up a workshop." They hugged hard, pounding each other's backs, hooting and hollering. "We can get us a big old bed." He winked, taking another kiss, grin so big he couldn't hold it back. "God, yes. One that takes up the whole room." He had to laugh at the wink and waggle Teague gave him. Man, when it rained it poured. Luckily this was the good kind of rain. "Goddamn, we got ourselves a home." He got himself a double handful of cowboy butt. "I think this deserves steak." "You think? I think it deserves a shower and some gymnastics. Let's get this work done." He got another kiss before Teague danced him back to the pitchfork and hose. "Slavedriver." He grabbed the hose, got the water running, and headed to grab the sweet feed. "Come on, y'all! Come and get it!" They got the work done and headed for the house arm in arm, bumping hips. Teague was laughing and talking, setting up plans. It felt right as rain, just like it ought to be. He'd come a long way since Dave. All that stuff had been waiting for him and Teague to be ready, he figured. They were ready now. Ready to spend a lifetime together. Ready to be home for good.

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Contributors Cat Kane Cat Kane is a creative writing graduate whose first memory involves writing a story about a little plastic cow. The little cow has since been replaced by pretty boys and their passions, but the premise stays the same. Writing excluded, her loves are felines and peanut butter, though not at the same time, and she owes her tenuous hold on sanity to her best friend. As well as Torquere Press, she has had work published in Aesthetica and Riot Angel magazine. Parhelion After growing up in Los Angeles, where everyone had a film script, and later working at a mammoth book retailer's corporate offices, where everyone had a manuscript, I vowed never to write. A few years down the road, I have to settle for taking guilty pleasure in breaking my vow. I live and dabble with my wife/civil partner/very, very close friend - feel free to select the appropriate phrase for your legal jurisdiction - in a New England small-town house full of pets and books. I have firmly vowed never to try and make a living writing. B. A. Tortuga B.A. Tortuga enjoys indulging in the shallow side of life, with hobbies that include collecting margarita recipes, hot tub dips, and ogling hot guys at the beach. A connoisseur of the perverse and esoteric, BA's days are spent among dusty tomes of ancient knowledge, or, conversely, surfing porn sites in the name of research. Mixing the natural born southern propensity for sarcasm and the environmental western straight-shooting sensibility, BA manages to produce mainstream fiction, literary erotica, and fine works of pure, unadulterated smut

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