Cowboy Dreams

1. Chapter One

Joe

There was someone new sitting at the bar, his back to me. Here, in the only gay-friendly place within a hundred miles of Dover’s Ridge, that sure made me perk up and take notice. Nice broad shoulders, trim waist, moderate-length hair a dark color in the low lights, styled city-fancy.

I strode over and slid onto the stool next to him, opening my mouth for some kind of smooth hello, but then he turned and looked at me. Eyes pale, pale blue like glacier ice stared at me from a face that coulda been carved by one of those Greek sculptors. Not too young, neither. Maybe my age, but all polished and perfect. And what came out from my lips was a stutter and “H-hey, come here often?”

If I was prone to blush, I probably would’ve at that bit of stupidity, but my skin’s weather-tanned and it don’t show much color. So I kept my chin up and eyes steady.

The stranger looked me up and down, from the dust on my beat-up Wrangler boots to the blond hair I guessed was squashed from being under my hat on the drive over. It occurred to me that I could’ve cleaned up a bit, maybe, beyond just a shower after work. But we mostly knew each other in this bar, and no fancy shirt or boot polish would make me anything but Joe McNeil—ordinary cowhand and none too fussy who he gets on his knees for, week to week.

The man’s gaze returned to my eyes and he said, “I assume you don’t,” in a cut-glass accent to go with the hundred-dollar hairdo.

“Don’t what?”

“Come here often.”

“This here’s my regular,” I said, a bit stung.

“And yet you can’t manage a better pick-up line than that trite, dusty antique?” One perfectly-shaped eyebrow climbed high.

I was about to snap something back and go try my luck elsewhere when I caught a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

Ooh, game on. I reached out and plucked the hem of his sweater with my fingers. The silky wool hugged his shoulders and caught on my calluses, no doubt Pierre Cardin or Armani or something, but I said, “It was probably this cardigan.”

“This what ?”

“Like my gramps used to wear.” I patted the knit back into place against a sharp-boned hip. “Made me think you wouldn’t recognize a pick-up line if it didn’t come from the nineteenth century.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and I saw a tiny smile tug one corner of his pretty mouth upward. “Interesting.” He cocked his head and bit his full lower lip, and I saw one of his eyeteeth was crooked—a tiny flaw in that perfect face. “My stay in this wilderness may not be as barren as I expected.”

Then, just when I’d got hopeful for getting his dick in my mouth, he shot the last of his drink in one gulp, pushed a pile of change across the bar, and strode out into the night. I blinked after him, wondering if he meant me to follow. Wondering if I would, because yeah, I’m mostly a bottom and I don’t mind following orders, but I kinda like the guy to look a little bit interested first.

But a powerful, deep engine roared to life in the parking lot, then pulled away and off down the road. Troy, sitting by the window, said, “Nice ride. Gotta be a ’67 Mustang.”

Clearly, whatever I thought I’d heard, Mr. Rich City wasn’t waiting around for me. I settled back on my stool like I didn’t care, but I did ask Max behind the bar, “You know that guy?”

“Nope. Never seen him.”

“He give a name?”

Max shook his head. “Paid cash. Three shots of my best Scotch—”

“—which ain’t all that good,” we said together.

Max chuckled. “He didn’t seem to care. Drank ’em down, didn’t look at nobody till you tried a line on him.” He scooped the money off the bar, glanced at the bills and coins, and dropped them in his pocket. “Good tipper, though.”

That was something. Lots of rich guys treated tipping like a cheat they resent paying. Like the folks working for eight bucks an hour were stiffing them for wanting a couple bucks more, even though they could afford it, easy. So a guy who was generous with his tips got one checkmark on the plus side of his ledger from me.

Owning a classic ’Stang? I wasn’t sure if that was ten plus, or ten minus for not offering me a ride. Or for having that much money when I was trying to decide if these boots could be resoled one more time, or if I’d have to bite the bullet and buy new.

Either way, I figured he was just passing through. I’d never see him again. Although he’d said, “My stay in this wilderness…”

I sat at the bar a mite longer and a couple of regulars raised a glass my way, but somehow, the array of familiar bodies had lost their appeal for the night. I got back into my truck around eleven. The engine started with a throaty roar too, but only ’cause the muffler was full of holes and held on with baling wire. The half-hour drive back to the ranch felt longer than usual, and emptier. Which made no damned sense at all.

I admit, I swung by Max’s Place a few more times than usual in the next week. Three times, to be honest, because normally, if I’m there at all, it’s just Saturdays. But Tuesday and Thursday and then Friday, it happened to be on my way home. (A lie. I lived in the bunkhouse where I worked, so “on my way home” was a short walk across the barnyard. But whatever.)

I drank three rum-and-cokes I didn’t really want, listened to way too much Tim McGraw, turned down a handful of guys, and came home empty-handed. Or empty-mouthed.

Saturday, I almost didn’t go, just to be ornery. But I’d woken up with painful morning wood, and my dick had nagged at me hopeful-like through the day. I was bound and determined to do something about it this time. Even if it wasn’t with Mr. Rich City.

Sure enough, when I arrived, there was no broad-shouldered stranger at the bar. I shoved my hopes down in the little box in my head where a lotta stuff like that lived, and paid for a drink while I scanned the thin crowd. I was in no hurry. Things would pick up later.

Round about midnight, I was just deciding that Junior Willoughby looked decent enough this time when I swear I felt a chill like an ice cube on the back of my neck. I turned and there he was, coming in the door. Those ice-blue eyes seemed to track right to me, and he headed my way. Several other guys watched him. That face and those shoulders were prime beef in a sea of ordinary folks like me.

When he reached the bar, he sat beside me, glanced at my glass, and asked Max, “Is your rum as mediocre as your Scotch?”

“You’ll have to buy one to find out,” Max drawled.

“Two rum and cokes.” He slapped two twenties on the bar.

Max coughed because his drinks ran seven bucks, but took both and poured out two stiff measures. The stranger pushed one toward me and drank the other like he was used to doing shots.

“Yes, as I thought,” he said, setting down the empty glass. “A bit lower than top shelf.”

“Well, I like it.” I sipped at mine, acting like it was some vintage brandy champagne thing. Even though booze never was more than a quick way to get a little lubrication onboard.

“I’m not sure what that says for your palate.”

“Says I’m not some city slicker with a fat wallet and prissified tastes.”

“Or that you’ve burned out your tastebuds.”

I shrugged and took another sip. “You got a name?”

“Yes.”

I waited but he didn’t go on, just eyed me sideways. “What’ve I gotta do to hear it? Lift your wallet and read the license?”

“Maybe tell me yours first?”

“Joe. McNeil. Folks around here know me, anyone could tell you. But I never seen you in these parts before.”

“Oh dear, senility setting in?” He peered at me with fake concern.

“Say the fuck what?”

“You saw me in here just last week. I’m shocked you’ve forgotten. That memory loss must be most inconvenient.”

I’d meant before that, and he knew it. So I said, “I guess you’re just that forgettable.”

He licked one finger and gave me a point in the air. I tell you, my jeans got tight watching his tongue on his skin. You can lick my finger, or any other parts you want.

“If you told me your name, I forgot that too,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

“You sure? Murgatroyd Bumblegarden rings a faint bell.”

“Hearing things too. Tsk tsk.” He shook his head. “There are no bells in here, Joe.”

I suddenly wanted to get this man and his smart, pretty mouth away from Max and the other guys—a bunch of them leaning close, listening, ready to horn in if the stranger got tired of plain old Joe. “Maybe we should check outside,” I suggested.

“Maybe we should, at that.” Mr. City waved to Max. “Keep the change.” He slid off his stool and raised an eyebrow at me. “Coming?”

“Takes more than a free drink and a pretty face to make me cum,” I muttered. “But I ain’t opposed to it.” I picked up my hat, walked past him, and led the way out, because he’d been making all the moves, and while I like a guy to push a bit, I didn’t have a measure of him yet.

Outside the bar, the night had turned crisp and chilly, with winter no more than a breath away. I set my hat on my head, zipped up my shearling coat, and turned to face the stranger. He was wearing a jacket today too, but leather, soft and rich. He fastened the buttons, standing in the flashing light of the Miller Beer sign in the bar window. Red and blue flickered highlights across his skin.

He said, “It’s rather frigid to stand around outside tonight.”

“And a mite chilly, too,” I agreed.

“I have a car.” He gestured at a sweet, candy-apple-red Mustang.

“That thing? I thought it was a fire engine. Or maybe a tomato.”

“Does zero to sixty in five point one seconds.”

“Pointing straight downhill with a tail wind?”

His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “Want to find out?”

I thought about it for half a second, eyeing my old truck and the run-down bar and that shiny sports car owned by a guy whose name I didn’t even know. “Tell me your name first,” I said.

“Sylvester.”

“That’s a mouthful. What did they call you in school? Syl?” I tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Or Vest?”

“They called me Sylvester. And so will you. Ride?”

Well, if I was gonna be murdered by a psycho, that was a fine vehicle to die in. Wasn’t like I had so much of a great life to lose. Anyhow, for all his airs, he didn’t strike me as the serial killer type. “Sure.”

He popped the locks and held my door like I was a girl. I lowered myself in, folding my long legs and setting my hat in my lap. The car was roomier than I expected, despite being low to the ground, and the black-upholstered seat underneath me had the smell of real leather. I breathed that scent in, then said, “Bet these seats get hot, come summer,” because I had to say something that didn’t sound too impressed.

Sylvester walked around the front and swung in his side. “Keep insulting the Mustang, and you won’t be around long enough to find out how it gets in summer.”

“That’s six months,” I said, surprised. “You gonna be in these parts that long?”

“God only knows.” He said the words so low I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear. Then louder, “Grab on,” and he peeled that car out of the lot, throwing a spray of gravel.

I clung to the Jesus-bar. “Better hope that there gravel didn’t take out anyone’s window. This car ain’t exactly inconspicuous, if they wanna find you.”

“I doubt they could spot the new damage amid the dents in most of those trucks,” he said.

That was true, but cold enough that I said, “We’re working cowboys, mostly, in that bar. Small business owners, laborers. We ain’t got money for polished and shiny.”

After a minute of silence, other than the growl of the ‘Stang as he opened her up on the paved road, he muttered, “You’re right. I will pay for any damage that might’ve occurred.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about the dents,” I admitted.

He stepped on the gas harder and the needle climbed to ninety miles an hour. I hoped Deputy Morse was miles away, patrolling Main Street, and not speed-trapping tonight. There was something angry, or restless, or maybe hurting, in the way he drove that car forward. Didn’t seem like just a man having fun showing off his toy.

I gave him a couple of minutes, then one more, then I tried to change the tone. “Why’re you called Sylvester, anyway? Rich uncle? Mom was bitten by a cartoon cat while pregnant?”

He choked a small laugh and eased off the pedal a bit. Score one for me. “No, she was a diehard fan of Georgette Heyer.”

“George who?”

“A romance author.”

“Sounds like no kind of excuse to me.”

“Well, I like it.” He huffed a breath.

“Good thing, since you gotta live with it.” Before he could get his back up too much, I added, “I kind of like it too. Suits you, in a cut glass, black tie way. Bit of a mouthful for me to scream out though, when you’re sucking me off.”

His lips twitched. “Good thing you’ll be sucking me off, then. ‘Joe’ is short and easy.”

“I’ll have you know I’m tall and easy,” I drawled. “Six-three, last time I checked.”

“I’m six-four.”

“And ain’t no one called me pretty.”

“Maybe not. Rugged. Striking. All planes and angles and colors like the raw earth and the winter grass and the mountains in fall.”

I liked that, a bit too much. I said, “That me or Mount Rushmore?”

“Your hair’s all kinds of golden shades, from deep amber to pale wheat straw. I noticed it, first off.”

“Sticks up like wheat straw too,” I said. “Anyhow, the lights in Max’s Place are too low to make out much.”

“Your eyes are gray, like storm clouds.”

“Are you a poet or a weatherman?”

“You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?”

I turned my hat around in my hands and admitted, “Haven’t never gotten many of those.”

He glanced my way, eyes on me long enough I was glad he’d dropped our speed down to legal. “I might have to fix that.”

Something needy inside me wanted to sit up and beg like a dog. Yeah, say nice things. Not just how good I can suck cock, or how fast I rope a steer. Make me feel special. I squashed it down flat. “Where are we going, Sylvester?”

“I thought my place,” he said. “But if that’s not okay with you, we could find a motel.”

Wasn’t a motel nearby that wouldn’t look sideways at us asking for a room for the night, when they knew where I lived. We could go down into Lakewood, maybe, but that was farther than I wanted to drive and longer than I wanted to wait. “Where’s your place?”

“It used to be a working ranch. The Circle K.”

“Really?” I took another look at him. He still didn’t look anything like a rancher. “Hasn’t been anyone living there for two, three years. Not since old man Pascal passed away. And he sold off all the stock a few years before. Couldn’t keep it going.”

“My grandfather.”

“Sorry for your loss,” I said automatically.

He shook his head. “I hadn’t seen him in thirty years. He disowned my mother, and she changed her name a couple of times. Which is why it took the lawyers two years to track me down. I was shocked he’d kept me in the will, instead of some distant cousin. And now I own an abandoned ranch in the middle of nowhere.”

“You can probably sell,” I suggested. “Neighbors might want to pick up the acreage.”

“Maybe. But… I’m going to think about this a while.”

Must be nice to have those options. If I owned a ranch… “What do you do in the city, Sylvester?”

“What makes you think I live in the city?”

I reached over and mussed the back of his perfect haircut, and he said, “Hey!”

“City boy,” I told him.

“City man , and you’re going to know that good and hard before the night’s out.”

“Promises, promises.” I slouched in my seat and stretched my legs out further.

He slowed and turned onto a gravel road. “I owned and managed a hotel. My establishment was bought out by a high-end chain, which gave me enough money to take a bit of time planning what to do next. And then, just when I was making some decisions, this ranch turned up.”

“So annoying, to be handed a house and a few hundred acres.”

“Few thousand,” he said. “But it’s out here in the boonies, where there’s only one gay bar in a hundred miles, and I’m surprised the rednecks aren’t lined up to beat down the men who go there.”

“Not anymore,” I said, real low. Because I’m forty, and twenty years ago, before Max’s, being out and proud could be a real risky proposition.

He must’ve caught my tone, because his hand landed on my knee, warm and strong, for just a moment. Then he had to steer a tight turn into the drive. “This is the place.”

He drove through the front gate, which stood open. I tell you, that open gate made me twitchy as hell in cattle country. Which was better than thinking back to the bad times. “You don’t have any stock on the place at all?”

“None. I might get a horse, if I’m here very long. I learned how to ride when I was a kid, and I miss it.”

“You’ll want to keep that gate shut, if you do.”

He laughed. “I grew up out here, till I was ten. I know all about good fences and good neighbors.”

“Cain’t prove it by that gate,” I drawled, to make him laugh again. I didn’t remember Mr. Pascal having a grandkid around my age. Made me wonder if we’d met back then, but my dick didn’t want to mess around comparing stories of our school days. We had better things to do tonight.

Sylvester pulled around in front of the main house and shut off the engine. With the Mustang’s voice silenced, the night hung quiet and heavy around us. “Is this still okay?” he asked.

“Depends. You got a bed in there? Or at least a thick rug?”

“Both.”

“Then, hell yeah.” I swung the door open and got out, tugging my hat down on my head. “Come on, Sylvester. You claim you got an inch on me. I’m gonna make you prove it.”