I jumped guiltily. “Nothing like that. It’s just nice being around horses again. Sorry.”
“Horses are the best creatures on Earth.” He grinned at the beast. “Not counting women, of course. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to the rest.”
“Sure,” I gave Ogre a last nose rub and followed Tad out.
“We run the horse operation from here,” Tad explained. “We’ve got the family mounts and the ones we use for working the cattle.”
“Mr. Chandler told me he’s breeding bulls?”
“Yup. That’s the business were in, son. The Rocking C’s Brangus bulls and their offspring are highly prized for feed efficiency, weight, and muscle composition. You won’t find more productive bulls anywhere.”
“Good to know.”
“Yup. We have science on our side. And selective breeding. Just think, the day might come when you’ll be able to say you catch bull semen for a living.”
“Be still my heart.” I winced because I was supposed to. But he’d have been the one making a face if he knew that was not even close to some of the gross and scary things I’ve done to stay alive.
Tad laughed. “Not worried about that?”
“There are worse things.”
I let him open the gate and we stepped into the corral. The Rocking C had some very fine horses. The one that made a beeline for me was a black colt whose curiosity made him want to come closer but whose instinct for self-preservation made him take off as soon as I even looked at him.
“And who might you be?” I asked, following him with a halter to lead him to the barn if he’d let me.
“That’s Smokey Joe,” Tad called. “And this here’s Joe’s Girl. His dam.”
“Beautiful. You must be so proud to work with them.”
“It’s pretty cool all right.” While Tad caught Joe’s Girl, I managed to entice the colt. “Which stall is his?”
“Follow me.” Tad took off toward the barn. Joe followed his momma like a champ.
Once inside the barn, Tad tapped on the door of Joe’s stall and I led him inside. “Here you go, boy. Home, sweet home.”
From behind me, I heard Tad grunt a greeting.
A new man appeared in the center aisle, a middle-aged man, weathered exactly how a cowboy should be. He reminded me so much of my dad—not in looks, exactly but just how he carried himself. His nod gave me gooseflesh.
“You the new guy?”
I held out my hand. “Sky Brody.”
“Julio.” We shook. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Smokey Joe there belongs to Chandler’s grandson,” he said, indicating the colt. “Boy just loves that animal.”
I picked up my grooming brush. “Seems like a good little guy.”
“The colt or the kid?”
“I haven’t met the grandson. I was talking about the colt.” Stroke after soothing stroke, I brushed Smoky Joe down to soothe and clean him.
“The kid’s cool. You’ll get to meet him soon, I hope. “
“I hope so too.”
“Julio,” Tad called. “Make yourself useful and go get the rest of the horses. Don’t nobody pay you for talking.”
“All right.” He shot Tad the finger. “Keep your hair on.”
We worked our way through the rest of the barn chores, and then stepped out into the sweet stillness of a late-summer day. Sunshine warmed my shoulders even as a hot breeze dried the sweat from my skin.
I needed a new word for how I felt because it was too good for any of my old words. Nobody should ever take sunshine and fresh air for granted.
Just then, the sound of iron meeting iron sang over the landscape—a tuneless bell calling the hands to the ranch house for a meal.
When my dad was alive, I loved waiting for the men of the Rocking C to make their way back for the supper call. Tired and dirty as they were, they loved their jobs. You could see it on their faces.
Especially, my father loved cowboying. He’d been old-school—said yessir and no, sir. He’d taken his family to “cowboy church,” where we read the scriptures right there in the Rocking C’s open pasture on nice-weather Sundays. He’d come home in the evening and wash the stink off first thing. He’d tease my mom and chase her around for kisses.
Those were good days.
It was fitting, somehow, it was essential, that Elena still used a big iron triangle to announce supper. That remembered life was the one thing I held on to, the only thing that kept me going, even after I got lost in all the bad things that came after.
My life went horribly wrong, but I wasn’t wrong to have hope for the future.
Being at the Rocking C, putting my boots on the same trails, working the same earth my dad worked when he was alive, was both homecoming and coming full circle, because when I looked in the mirror, it was my dad’s face I saw looking back at me.
Six feet tall. Brown hair. Gypsy eyes, as my mother called them.
I was mindful I had to be worthy of his legacy.
I was mindful there were folks who’d never think I was worthy, me being an ex-con, me being a tenderfoot compared to some who’d lived on the ranch their whole lives. Me being gay.
Still, while I waited my turn to wash up at the outside sink, I held my head high. Rock sauntered over, followed by Maisy. She had eyes like shiny brown buttons and a sweet doggy smile.
“Hey, Sky.”
Rock greeted me like we were old friends. He wore that slice-of-happy grin on his face, and it shored up the hope I had. I remembered Maisy was supposed to be working, but the Rocking C had cattle dogs too, and I played with them some before I dragged my shirt over my head, put my hat up on a hook, and leaned over the big outdoor sink to wash up for supper.
I felt the silence fall behind me before I actually recognized what it was—a group of people had stopped talking and were now openly staring at me. I picked up a towel to dry my face and hands before turning to face Rock, Tad, and the rest of the hands.
Rock’s wide white smile blindsided me. “Wow.”
Caution made me ask, “What?”
“Your ink is awesome.”
“Thanks.” Why was everyone staring?
“What’s ‘Gorrión’?” Tad said the word like Go Ryan.
“It means sparrow,” I admitted. “Nickname.”
“Yours?” Rock tilted his head this way and that, looking at each of my tattoos as if they were pictures in a photo album and he was trying to remember which long-dead auntie he was looking at.
Then he lifted his gaze to meet my eyes and I couldn’t breathe. I felt his stare like a physical touch.
“Sparrow,” he murmured. “Sparrows are tough and smart. Sparrows are survivors.”
Again, he held my gaze too long for a straight guy. It was fully three seconds before he let his focus fall to my lips again and that clinched it, right there. The lazy upward curve of his full pink mouth said it all. In fact, my dick was already deep in conversation with the expression on Rock’s face, making its thoughts known with brutal clarity inside my too-tight jeans.
Julio cleared his throat.
C’mon, man, his expression seemed to say, stop staring at the kid.
I didn’t bother saying, Tell it to the kid.
“Lefty Wheeler would shit a cruise ship if he saw your back,” said Rock.
“That’s something I don’t need to see. How come?”
“He’s got this sleeve he thinks is so awesome. He’s always flexing his muscles.” Rock demonstrated. “Getting in everyone’s faces. He calls people retards if they don’t bow down and worship.”
“He call you that?” That word purely enraged me. Reflexively, I wanted to find this Lefty Wheeler and put him out of all our misery.
“Yeah. He’s an asshole. One time he—”
&nb
sp; “Rock, I think I heard Elena calling you.” Julio turned to point toward the kitchen window.
“I didn’t hear.” Rock turned to look.
Julio jerked his chin toward the house. “I heard it. Go see what she needs.”
“Okay.” Rock gave up and went inside to see what Elena wanted.
Once Rock was gone, Tad and Julio flanked me. The whole thing had a practiced look to it. Maybe they kept Rock away from all the hands, not just the ex-cons with homo dick issues?
“I’ve seen tats like those before. You get all that ink inside?” Tad asked.
“Yeah.”
He got right up in my face. “Does the boss know?”
“Yeah he does.” If these guys thought I’d never been backed up to a sink before . . .
I didn’t like the way they tried to box me in. Even as I pivoted, casually putting my back to a solid wall, my pulse machine-gunned in my throat. I wasn’t actively worried they could hurt me. It was another knee-jerk reaction. A reflex. Reflexes are worse than useless sometimes.
Some reflexes get you jailed. Some get you killed.
“I don’t know if the Rocking C’s right for you.” Tad glared at me. “Maybe you should think about moving on.”
“Because I have tattoos?” I pushed past Tad and Julio. “Everyone has tattoos. If I move on it’ll be because Mr. Chandler asks me to.”
“Fair enough.” Julio gave a sharp nod. “But until I talk to the boss, you eat on your own.”
“Fine.”
I let myself relax because I preferred that anyway. Nobody needs to see me hunched over my food like a junkyard dog.
“And I’m real sorry if I gave Rock some idea about getting tattoos—” I shrugged. “I can talk to him—”
“I’ll talk to Rock,” said Tad.
“This isn’t just our job. It’s our home. These people are my family.” Julio nodded toward the table where the rest of the hands were eating. “We protect what’s ours.”
Julio and Tad stood side by side, united to protect the ranch from me and whatever perceived evils I brought with me. My plan going forward was to show them how wrong they were about me. I could be the best goddamn ranch hand, ever. But proving that was going to take time. And I wasn’t going to catch any breaks by standing there arguing.
“If Mr. Chandler lets me stay, I won’t let him down.”
“We’ll see.” He left, after exchanging a sly look with Tad.
Well, shit.
What did I expect? A welcome parade?
Starting over is never easy. Keep your head down and work your ass off. Trust that Chandler is a fair man. Things will be fine.
My self-talk sucks.
I was still standing by the washtub with Tad when Julio came back with a napkin-draped plate and a big glass of milk.
“There are some picnic benches behind the bunkhouse, or you can eat in your room. Make sure you don’t leave food out overnight or we’ll all get critters.”
Tad glared at me as if to say, I wouldn’t put it past you, jailbird freak.
Terrific.
Outside of the job, I didn’t give a shit about any of these guys except for Rock.
He required skillful handling. I figured I should talk to him for two reasons. One, he’d been decent to me. Decent people aren’t all that thick on the ground. When you find one, you ought to do whatever you can to acknowledge it or pay it forward. Some shit like that. And two, what did Rock say? Some asshole had called that sweet kid what?
Oh, hell no.
But . . . wait. I was on fucking parole, goddamnit.
There were two Skyler Brodys now. There was the one forged in prison who couldn’t leave a scale unbalanced, a slight unanswered, or a challenge undefended. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness at all. But the other Skyler Brody, the man who lived in the Real World, had to remember to pick his battles. He had to follow Real World rules.
In spite of that, I filed the name Lefty Wheeler away for later.
“What’s Rock’s deal anyway?” I asked.
“None of your business.” Julio turned away, but not before giving me a hard stare. “Just stay away from him. He doesn’t concern you.”
Chapter 5
Sky
Just stay away from him. He doesn’t concern you.
Probably true. I shouldn’t be around a nice guy like him.
But he was easy on the eyes. He had a well-developed, football player’s body wrapped in creamy, freckled skin.
Because of that, I shouldn’t spend a single second anywhere near him alone. Far from cock-blocking me, Julio and Tad were going to be my new best allies in the war to keep from losing my job over a dude.
The walk back to the bunkhouse was real pleasant, and I found the picnic area right where I remembered. Wooden tables were set up in the shelter of some Spanish oak trees, probably planted generations ago to serve as a windbreak.
There were horseshoe pits too, and railroad-tie planter boxes, where all us kids used to sit and spit watermelon seeds. Spitting was a cherished pastime of mine back in the day—one my Momma would have blistered my ass for in any other circumstance. Sterling Chandler himself lined all the kids up and watched to see who could spit the farthest. It was never me. We’d left before I could ever win.
I unwrapped my plate. Elena’s cooking was better than any memory of it could ever be: creamy refried beans, baked chicken, crisp pickled vegetables, homemade tortillas, and salsa cruda. Simple food but delicious.
I had really terrible table manners from keeping company with fuckers who’d steal my food and let me starve just for the fun of it. Those same assholes would probably get extra mileage out of betting on how long it would take me to die. Even Nando, the one man inside I’d trusted with my life, would have stolen from me if he thought he could get away with it.
Despite my lack of class, or maybe because I was a scrub, I always tried to come up with three things to be grateful for. Being out, being employed, even the breeze lifting my sweat-soaked hair and cooling my scalp made that resolution an easy one. I closed my eyes and continued making a list. I don’t time myself when I’m being grateful, but depending on how things are going, it can take a while.
A shadow fell over my plate and I glanced up. It had rained earlier, so I thought a cloud had drifted across the sun, but no. Rock stood there, holding a glass of milk in one hand and a plate in the other. He set his things down and sat across from me with a plop, drawing napkins, silverware, and even a bottle of water from his pockets.
I didn’t see his minders. Where were Tad and Julio now?
“I’m sorry I called everyone’s attention to your tattoos. I didn’t know they came from prison.”
“It’s nothing.”
Rock mixed his beans and pickled vegetables, added chicken, and slapped the whole mess on a tortilla. He covered this with salsa and folded it up before taking a massive bite.
I winced ’cause that was sort of visually disgusting, but he grinned happily.
“Do you think I could see your ink again?”
“I don’t—”
“Just the crow.” His gaze rested on my forearms. “That one is so cool.”
I hesitated before rolling up my sleeve to show him. I reckoned everyone had tattoos these days. But maybe Rock came from one of those families who believe it’s a sin to mark yourself. I had tattoos inside my wrists and up both arms. They weren’t sleeves. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’d only been doodled on by a bored amateur for a lot of long years. Maybe they’d have connected up if I’d done my whole stretch.
“I have ink on my legs and back too.” It was almost like I could feel the burn right then. Like I could hear ’Nando’s crappy makeshift battery-operated engine punching the needle into my skin. “We had a lot of time on our hands.”
“How come they’re all black
?”
“I guess we could have made colored ink. People do. ’Nando likes gray-scale images.”
Rock nodded.
“Tattoos tell you about people and it can pay to know what they mean,” I said.
“Like the spiderwebs?”
“Signifies I’ve done prison time.”
Again, Rock’s head bobbed. He studied my arms carefully. “Your friend is a really good artist.”
I nodded. “When his hands weren’t shaking from drinking pruno, yeah.”
“Pruno?”
“Fermented shit made with dried fruit. It tastes like garbage but it gets the job done.”
“Yuck.” Rock took my hand and turned it so he could look at the thick, barbed-wire band winding around my wrist. “This one seems kind of sad to me.”
“It’s meant to be sad.” Did men on the outside pick up each other’s hands like that? “You—”
“And this one?” Rock lifted my arm out and ran his finger over the skin bearing ’Nando’s crow.
His touch electrified me. Have mercy.
This guy was going to get me killed if I didn’t watch out.
“That one’s my favorite.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded thready. “The crow was my cherry-pop, inkwise. It hurt like a bitch, but ’Nando’s mark kept the other inmates away better than an electrified fence. It was meant for my protection.”
“Protection.” He spoke the word reverently. “I wish I had something like that.”
“Do you need protection?” Instinct, honed inside prison by steel and blood, made me ask. “Someone bothering you?”
Solemnly, he met my gaze and changed the subject. “Did you ever hear the story about how Crow became black?”
It took me a second to catch up. “Weren’t crows always black?”
“Nope. My mom read me a kid’s book about it when I was little.” The light in his eyes was teasing now. Maybe even a little flirtatious.
Oh, son. You aren’t afraid of me at all, are you? “Yeah?”
His tongue peeked out, dabbing the corner of his lip when he smiled.
I shivered.
“Crow used to be rainbow-colored. He had such a beautiful voice everyone loved to hear him sing.”
My Cowboy Freedom Page 3
