by Sean Michael
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Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2004 by Sean Michael
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Chapter 1
Trey slammed the tack into the tack room and slammed the door shut, spooking Rip and Miss Kitty, even getting a snort out of old Ellen in the back.
“Shit, I'm sorry, guys. I'm just ... Fuck, it's been a long-assed day, yeah?” He walked over to offer rubs and carrots and settle everybody down. He ran his hand over Rip's nose, shaking his head. “It's just three of the cows are fixing to calve and I've got six heifers in cycle that big-assed bull raring to get at, when he's not jumping the fucking fence and riding Henderson's Herefords.”
Miss Kitty was next, pretty little thing, all spitfire and fury, nibbling her carrot. “And to make it worse, doc says my Pud's got to lie easy for a few weeks on account of that damned tendon. Not that I don't dote on y'all, but damn, Pud's my baby and I hate seeing her hurt and cooped up in the sick barn.”
He went ahead on into Ellen's stall, hoping to encourage the sweet old thing to eat a little. “And then, with that big-assed spread going in? All the day-labor's flown the damned coop and when I asked for help? What do I get? Dick-all. Not even enough to hire one decent cowboy so this old boy can get some damned sleep. Maybe a beer. Or a bath.”
Trey shook up Ellen's sweet feed, staring out the window. The evening was taking on that bright, damned near fake look that sunset could give it. The grasses were still green, the big house looking so big and so white from here, the big cottonwoods in the front almost as pretty as the magnolias in the back. He sighed, leaning against Ellen's shoulder, kicking the straw. Shit. Even as much as he grumped, he loved this place, loved the land and the critters and his little bunkhouse. Hell, he even liked Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales, even if they were both clueless damned tax lawyers who didn't understand ranching any better than he understood tax laws. “I'm thinking I need a vacation, old miss. Maybe head into San Antone, or to Padre, do some swimming.”
“Shit, cowboy. You have time to vacation, then I know Daddy's not going to let you hire anybody.” He looked up, grinning at Marty, the bleached blond, tightly permed hair catching the sun.
“What're you doing home, boy? I thought they'd sent you off to seduce all the little girls in Austin, or some such nonsense.”
“Brought you help, didn't I? Don't know if I'm going to bring him in now though.” Marty pouted at him, the look ruined by the bright eyes dancing wickedly.
“Tell me he can ride, that he at least knows the difference between a horse and a head of cattle.” Trey leaned against the stall door, tipping his hat back. “And can't you wear jeans like a normal person? I mean, good lord, you look like a lawyer's son.”
“That would be because I am a lawyer's son, asshole. And I didn't ask if he could ride, I just asked if he was willing to work hard for little more than room and board. When he said yes, I hauled his ass back with me. You want to meet him or not?”
Trey narrowed his eyes. “And why didn't you haul back some young filly you could torture and harass with your almost-manly bod?”
Marty shot him the finger. “Because for some reason I actually thought you could use a hand. I would be more than pleased to take him back to the highway and dump him in favor of a sweet young thing who'll spend all her time trying to get into my pants.”
He grinned, “Nah ... God knows you have enough trouble keeping it in your pants, Marty.” Their joint laughter felt good and he patted Ellen and slipped out of her stall. “You introduced him to your folks already?”
“I wouldn't do that to you. Figured I'd let you get first crack at him and if you didn't like him, I'd just take him away again—you know my folks'll take your say so on hiring.”
Trey gave Marty a grateful grin. Nothing like a grade school friend to ease your troubles. “You're a good'un, Mart, I don't care what they say about you down at the jail. Where is he? Oh, d'you hear Pud's laid up? Doc Richards came out this morning.”
“Outside, and I hear it's you they talk about down at the jail.” Marty led him out to the yard. “Sorry about Pud, though I still say the way you dote on that horse is unnatural—you need to get out more.” Marty nodded at the kid waiting by the fancy truck Marty drove. The kid, who was twenty if he was a day, was skinny, blond, wearing a t-shirt, jeans and a pair of sneakers. The kid was looking around at the place like he'd never seen a ranch before.
“Howdy. I'm Brandon Latrie. Marty says you're hunting work.” He offered up his hand, fighting a groan. The kid wasn't hard on the eyes and didn't look like a stranger to work. Still, he really needed a cowboy.
He got a ready grin and the kid had a decent handshake. “Russ Johnson. And yeah, I could use a job and a place to stay. Marty said he thought he might be able to offer me both?”
“Depends, what all can you do?” He swatted a mosquito and shook his head. “Let's have this talk in the house, yeah? The critters are coming out and I need a glass of something cold.”
“Sure.” Russ fell into step next to him.
“I'm going to have a shower and change and head back out,” Marty told them. “So if you're needing a ride back out, Russ, that'll be the time to be looking for it.”
Russ nodded. “Thanks.”
Russ waited until they'd made it into his kitchen before saying anything else. “I don't know much about working on a farm, but I'm willing to learn and I'm a hard worker. Marty kind of implied that you didn't have enough to pay someone with experience.”
“That's for damned sure.” He sighed and shook his head. “There's a big new place hiring the hands and the Mr. and Missus just aren't going to go there. The livestock here are tax write-offs for them, but they're my babies. You want a coke or some tea?”
He dug out two jelly glasses and an ice cube tray.
“Coke, please.” Russ helped himself to a chair. “So maybe we can help each other out then.”
“Surely.” He grabbed the two-liter from the icebox and poured out. “So, can you ride at all? I mean, I'm willing to train someone up, but I'll be honest, I'm damned busy and was hoping to be able to take a day off every once and awhile, go into town. Sleep.”
Russ looked apologetic. “I've ridden a motorcycle before ... I really am a fast learner though and from what I understand there isn't a long line behind me.”
He handed Russ a glass and sat down. “Well, that's the God's honest truth. Tell you what, you tell me what all you've done and then I'll tell you what we can offer and what we need and we'll see if we reckon there's a fit.” Even someone to help clean and haul and hammer and hell, invent dinner a few nights a week would help at this point, and Marty wouldn't have brought the kid without some reason.
“Well I've been traveling for a couple of years now. Getting to see the country good and proper, spending months at places instead of whipping through them in days.” Russ took a swallow of his coke. “I've worked in a warehouse, hauling boxes around. Done a few gas stations, mostly pumping gas, taking a quick look at engines—I did all right in shop in high school, but most garage owners don't want you messing with the insides of their customers’ cars without more than that backing you up.
“Did the books in one place—I'm handy with numbers and projections and stuff. Short order cooked for about a week—I hated how hot it got and the way you stank of grease even
after multiple showers and the owner of the diner was a real asshole, so I left and got work at a lumber yard instead.”
Russ gave him a grin. “I guess you could say I'm a jack of all trades and master of none.”
Trey tilted his head, grinned back. “That's not a bad quality to have around here. We've got forty-three head of cattle, fixing to be more. Four horses. Couple dozen free-range chickens and a handful of milk goats. The missus is allergic to cow's milk. Lots of what's needing done is basic chores—cleaning stalls and mending barns. Gathering eggs. Milking.”
He took off his hat, rubbed his hand through his hair. “We also need some figuring done—they're cutting hay next week, so we'll need to reckon what we can keep, what to sell. The Gonzales’ like to just pay on the salary, so any money we make on hay and calves, that's what we get for making shit nicer, better cattle, stuff like that.”
Russ nodded. “I'm really good with figures and budgets. And not bad at finding deals either—calling around, cutting deals to get the best prices, that kind of thing. And that other stuff, well I don't know how to milk a goat, but I figure you can teach me, pretty easily. Cleaning stalls sounds like something your average idiot can do and I usually do at least as well as your average idiot.”
“The bad news is this is the house. There's two bedrooms, a front room, a bathroom and here. No cable, but we got satellite feed from the big house. Computer's on dialup—the Gonzales’ like to keep in touch through the email. They travel.” He shrugged and grinned. The kid seemed smart and some slow help was better'n no help. “We don't pay for anything over long-distance phone calls and food. I reckon, if you take the job, we'll take turns cooking.”
Russ nodded, looking around. “This place is a lot nicer than some of the rooms I've boarded in, so I guess that's not a problem. Is there a salary above room and board?”
He finished his coke and nodded, fingers drumming on the scratched wooden table. “I believe Mr. Gonzales quoted me $250 a week. It's not much, but if you have a driver's license, you get use of a pickup when you need it and there's a roof over your head.” He looked around the little kitchen, all piece-meal and odd, but clean and working. Not a bad place at all.
“And not too much to spend your money on, I imagine.” Russ nodded. “That's a darn sight more than I'd be able to save up on most jobs after I'd paid for a room and food.”
The kid held out his hand. “You've got yourself a deal.”
He shook the kid's hand, nodded. “You need to go get your things? Marty can run you back to town, if you want and I'll fetch you tomorrow, if you need it.” There was no way he was giving the keys of a truck up yet. Not until he knew the kid and had driver's license numbers and shit.
“I've got one of those big backpacks—it's in the back of Marty's truck. I can move in now if you'll have me. Save me having to spend another twenty bucks at that shit hole I stayed at last night.”
“That works. I'll grab the shit I've got stored in there and you can settle in.” Trey stood and stretched. “I'll dig around for us some grub and give Mr. G. a call, let him know we've hired.”
“Cool.” Russ watched him a moment and then stood. “I'll go get my stuff.”
“Cool.” He took the glasses over to the sink, then headed down the hall to pull his storage boxes back into his room. He'd never lived with somebody before, not here anyway. He dropped the boxes on his bed, eyes catching on the bottle of lube and box of tissue right out in the open. Oh, he'd better make some changes.
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Russ was shouldering his pack just as Marty came out of the big house, looking all clean and fancy. He held out a hand to the guy. “Thanks, I got the job.”
Marty took his hand and shook it. “I'm not surprised. Trey—Brandon—is desperate for the help and I knew y'all would suit each other. I'm talented that way.”
He wondered what the heck that was supposed to mean, but just shook Marty's hand. The man had done him a good turn, he wasn't going to start questioning motives. “Thanks again.”
He nodded and headed back toward the little house behind the barns. The house was actually kind of quaint—obviously made from leftovers of the big house, but well-built, white and square. There were wildflowers blooming all around it, a rocking chair and a log bench on the front porch. Hell, there was even a charcoal grill and a picnic table in the backyard. It was a lot nicer than a lot of the places he'd stayed while on his adventure. Still, he'd gotten lucky as often as not, like the little old lady who'd treated him like a grandson when he'd rented the room over her garage in Oklahoma.
Someone was looking out for him.
He let himself into the house and called out. “Brandon? Where d'you want my gear?”
The low voice rumbled from the kitchen. “Down the hall, first door on the left. Door ‘cross the ways is the restroom.”
“Thanks.” He followed the directions and found himself in a nice, if sparse room. There was a double bed by the window, a wardrobe in one corner and a simple chair next to the tiniest table he'd ever seen in the opposite corner. He started unpacking, putting his clothes away into the wardrobe, his little alarm clock and his book and journal on the tiny table. His toiletry bag went into the bathroom. He left the other odds and ends at the bottom of his pack and shoved that at the bottom of the wardrobe before wandering back out to the kitchen.
Brandon was whistling along with the radio, something frying in a skillet, tortillas, cheese and salsa on the table. The close-cropped black hair was wet, the dusty shirt traded for a t-shirt. “I found some fajita meat. Figured that was easy.” He got a lazy grin. “I'm not the best cook. Easy and quick—that's my motto.”
“Fajitas sound great. I can cook, but most of the time I'm too lazy to put the work into a real complicated meal, so quick and easy sounds good to me. Can I do anything to help? Set the table or something?”
“Yeah and we're damned near out of tea. Can you fill the jar and set it on the porch? The tea's in the pantry.”
“Set it on the porch?” he asked, opening cupboards until he found the one with plates and cups.
“Yup. Sun tea. The jar's by the sink.” Sure enough, a huge glass gallon jar with a lid was sitting on the pale counter top. “Just fill it up with water and throw three bags in and put it in the last bit of sun. It's warm enough. It'll be ready by suppertime.”
“Neat.” He finished setting the table and then filled the jar and added the tea bags. He wandered back in after setting the jar on the porch. The front room was homey—one big old overstuffed couch and a worn recliner. Two bookshelves with books and movies and board games. A couple of posters—one of a pair of running horses, the other from the movie “Young Guns"—were framed in plastic and hung up.
After checking out the front room he made his way back to the kitchen. Brandon was a pretty good-looking guy, tall and strong with a cute little ass that he'd heard a girl at the bar describe as a ‘cowboy bubble butt'. Of course scoping out his boss probably wasn't the wisest thing to be doing, and there was no way in hell Marty was anything but straight, not to mention the owners’ son. He hadn't seen anyone else around either and even if there had been, he figured cowboys didn't usually go for other cowboys so he was going to have to resign himself to his hand. Not that any of those thoughts were appropriate while your boss and housemate was cooking you dinner, so he cleared his throat. “Anything else I can do?”
“No, just relax, I guess. Tell me stuff about yourself.” He got another grin, an arched eyebrow. “What things drive you crazy? Where're you from? That sorta stuff.”
He pulled out a chair and sat, playing with a fork, turning it in his hands. “Well I'm nineteen. I've been traveling since I got out of high school. Taking my time, spending a month here, two there.
“I'm from Rochester and my grades weren't awful, but nothing to celebrate and I really didn't want to do college or work at the Kodak plant like my old man and about three quarters of my relatives. So I packed my back, took out the money I'd made a
t Burger King and hit the road. You know what drives me the most crazy? Trying to have a coffee and a donut and getting hit on by a chick that just won't take no for an answer. I don't know—I guess I have an innocent face or something, but they all seem to figure I'm a virgin and they want to change that. If it had only happened once...”
Brandon laughed, the sound husky and hot as hell. “Shit, kid, just make yourself a button. ‘Been Laid'. Or for that matter? Ten minutes with Marty and he'll have you hooked up. The girls love him.”
He nodded, unsure of what to say to that. He didn't hide who he was, but he'd found it easier to just not mention his orientation once he started moving south. He finally settled on, “Not really looking to get hooked up with the kind of person Marty's into.”
“Girls? ‘Cause I'm telling you, I've known Marty since he was six and that boy is not picky.”
“I don't have problems attracting girls, I just...” Fuck it, he was going to be living with Brandon, better the guy knew from the start than found out later and beat him to a pulp over it. “I'm not attracted to them.”
“Oh.” Brandon turned a dark red, looking down at the skillet. “I swear to God, I'm going to kick Marty's ass from here to Tulsa.”
Crap.
Well it was still better this had come out in the open now, rather than once he was settled. “I didn't realize it was going to be a problem. I'll go pack my stuff back up and you can take me into town.”
“Oh! Oh, shit. No. No, don't misunderstand me.” Brandon looked across the room, met his eyes. “No problem, except with Marty. That sorry son-of-a-bitch has been trying to set me up for years.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “No shit—you're not into girls either?” He laughed at himself as his eyes automatically dropped down along Brandon's body, checking him out from head to toe. Yeah, Brandon was a pretty good-looking guy. Of course, just because the man was gay didn't mean it was suddenly a good idea to be scoping out his boss.
