Cowboy Dreams

3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Joe

Something woke me from a deeper sleep than I could remember in years. I was warm, almost too warm. A narrow shaft of morning sun in my eyes said I’d slept in way past my usual. I blinked and stretched and my foot grazed a man’s hairy ankle.

Sylvester! Memories of last night landed like a rockslide on my head. I froze, scrunching my eyes shut as if that would get me back into the bunkhouse in my narrow bed.

Behind me, Sylvester mumbled something, then stirred. “Joe?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah?” Because it was too late to sneak out and pretend this never happened.

A kiss at the top of my spine near made me rocket off the side of the bed.

Sylvester grabbed my shoulder and said, “Sorry, I thought you were awake.”

“Was. Just didn’t expect that.” I shrugged free and sat up on the edge. “Must be gettin’ late.”

“Do you have to go to work?”

“No. Day off.”

Sylvester reached past my hip to set a hand on my bare thigh and waited till I turned to look at him. “We could take advantage of your morning off.”

My dick sure wanted to. I went from regular morning wood to hard as nails at the heat of his palm on my skin. But this wasn’t some evening pick-up that somehow stretched into an unexpected nap. I wasn’t sure what this was. Just that it felt important, and I needed pants on when we talked about what the hell we were doing.

I got up, found my boxers and jeans, and tugged them on. Maybe a shirt was going too far, but despite the bright sun filtering in around the curtains, I felt chilled. Maybe leaving the warm bed did it. Maybe leaving the warm man. In any case, I added my flannel.

Sylvester watched me, his head tilted, propped on an elbow with his naked chest on display. I crossed my arms and made like I wasn’t looking. “D’you do breakfast around here, or live on coffee and spite?” At his puzzled frown, I had to add, my tone lighter, “I could murder for a cup of coffee.”

That brightened his expression. “Down in the kitchen, I have coffee, eggs, bacon, bread. Are you offering to cook?”

“You trust me with your food?”

“Yes.” He sat up and gave me an intent stare. “I trust you.”

That seemed like it meant more than whether I could make toast. I scooped up my boots and socks. “I’ll get going on that.”

“You don’t have to.”

I shrugged and left the room, figuring some distance might help my whirling brain.

A little looking around, with a detour into a downstairs bathroom, found me the kitchen, which was about as big as you’d expect for a house with ten bedrooms. Acres of Formica-topped counters, painted cabinets, a double sink and a single, and an older stove with a second oven beside it. The fridge had a black plastic front, as old as the rest of the room, but I didn’t see a single fingerprint. I wondered who Sylvester had cleaning for him. I was willing to bet he didn’t mop his own floors.

Luckily the gas range lit right up. The fridge was half empty but the food he promised was in there. I was halfway through frying a pan of bacon when Sylvester finally made it down to the kitchen.

He’d dressed, right down to cowboy boots, and I felt exposed with my feet bare on the tiles. Ignoring my discomfort, I said, “How do you want your eggs?”

“I don’t usually eat much breakfast.”

“Gonna change if you want to get this place working.” I scrambled up four, divided them between plates, added bacon and toast. I hadn’t figured out the coffee machine, and for a minute I’d thought about making cowboy coffee boiled in a pot. But knowing Sylvester, he’d give me a hard time if he choked on the grounds. I’d found filters and a strainer and improvised. It worked.

I set his mug in front of him.

He eyed it. “Maybe I take cream in it?”

He didn’t seem like the type, but I said, “There’s milk in the fridge. Your legs ain’t broke.”

“Fair enough.” He lifted his mug and took a long swallow.

I fought the impulse to get the milk for him and sat down instead. “Too lazy to walk ten feet?”

He grinned. “I actually don’t take any.”

“You just like to stir the shit, don’t you?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Actually, if you asked around, they’d tell you that Joe McNeil was a quiet guy, never any trouble, kept himself to himself. Sylvester brought out the worst in me. Or maybe the best. Watching him crunch a strip of bacon between strong white teeth, then lick his fingers, I began to warm up to his morning-in-bed idea.

To distract myself, I asked, “Were you serious? About the dude ranch thing?”

“Completely.” He eyed his eggs like he wasn’t sure what they were, but ate a big forkful and nodded. “These are good.”

“Been cooking for myself for thirty years.”

“Thirty? How old are you?”

“Forty.” I ate my toast and let him make of that what he would.

Something dark flickered across his face, but he didn’t push for more than I gave him. Just said, “I’m forty-four.”

“Old man,” I teased, although of the two of us, I had a lot more mileage and looked older.

His lips twitched. “So, Joseph—”

“Joe,” I broke in. My dad had called me Joseph and I didn’t want to hear it from Sylvester.

He cocked an eyebrow, but something in my tone must’ve made him think better, because he said, “Joe, then. I have this ranch, I have ideas, but I’m not sure where to start. If you were me, looking at this place and trying to decide if you could make something of it, where would you start?”

I’d been tensed up to have a discussion about us. Maybe about feelings, which had never been my strong suit. So I was happy to dive into something practical instead. I suggested, “Buy a horse.”

Sylvester blinked at me. “Seriously? Why that?”

“You’ve got this ranch.” I gestured toward the window where the back meadows of the Circle K lay in the midmorning sunshine. “How many acres?”

“About eight thousand.”

“Yeah. And all of it’s been lying fallow for years, fences coming down, trees growing up. That track I drove on last night was grown up to hell. I was lucky I made it through.” Stupid, really, because a couple of times I came near to ripping the bottom out of my truck. I’d been worked-up trying to beat Sylvester, beyond the bounds of common sense. “You need to see what you’ve got. You could buy a four-wheeler, but a horse can go places a four-wheeler can’t. Besides.”

I waited long enough, trying to put my thoughts into words, that he prompted, “What?”

“You’ve got this dream, right? A ranch, the horses, some beefs to play around with for the guests’ entertainment. Hell, a dog and cats in the barn, I bet. Right?”

“Ye-es?” He dragged out the word, like he wasn’t sure if I was making fun of him.

“It could be a good dream, but it’s one you left behind when you were ten. You been on a horse since then?”

“A few times.”

“Owned one?”

“No.”

“Ranch life can heal your soul, or break it. Horses die, bad storms come through, fences break, cows get hit on the road, hands turn out crooked or drunk or careless.”

“Running a big hotel isn’t that different. Roofs leak, power goes out, employees turn out drunk or careless.”

“I guess.” I wasn’t sure why I felt there was a difference, but I did. “Anyhow, buy a horse. Check out the land, see how much repair the place needs. See if you like the Circle K as much as you remember.” I forced a laugh. “See what your hips think about a day in the saddle.” Mine ached something fierce these days, if I pushed too hard.

“I figured I’d hire some cowboys for the long days in the saddle.”

“Sure, but… you’re selling the ranch life, the experience, right? Bringing guests out here for a taste of a way of life that’s different than theirs. More real. More simple, maybe, but not easier.”

“Yes.”

“So you gotta make sure you want that life. You can’t sell it if it’s a childhood dream you find out you’ve outgrown. If you’re gonna drag a bunch of city folk out here to the boonies, where Max’s is the only queer-friendly entertainment for miles, you gotta believe it’s worth their time. So they believe it. Can’t run a dude ranch without dudes.”

Sylvester eyed me like I’d said something interesting. “True, although I think you underestimate how well people can sell things from a totally cynical position. But, sure, all right. I should buy a horse, ride the ranch, make plans when I see what I have to work with?”

“Yeah.” Put like that, it sounded pretty basic, but he’d asked. If he didn’t want basic, he could ask someone smarter.

“I’d need a fixed-up barn first though, to keep the horse in, right?”

“Pasture would do, this time of year. We won’t get snow for a few weeks yet.” Although I rapped the wooden table to ward off bad luck. “I can check the fences for you, fix what needs fixing. A barn, yes, soon.”

“I have a bunch of outbuildings. We’ll have to check them all.”

“How long have you been living on the ranch this time around?” I figured exploring the place would’ve been top of his to-do list.

“The night I met you in Max’s? I’d been here almost two weeks.”

“Couldn’t wait two weeks to dip your wick?” I teased.

“Feeling alone, frustrated with the damned consultant, testing the queer waters. Then I saw this long, cool drink of cowboy at the bar, and going to the only bar with a rainbow in the corner of the window suddenly seemed like a great idea.”

“Pity he refused to go home with you.” I eyed him over my coffee mug.

“Pity I didn’t ask him.” Sylvester got up and cleared our plates into the dishwasher. “It sounds like the order of business is pasture, barn, and buying a horse.” He kept his back to me, rinsing something in the sink as he asked, “Are you willing to stick around and help with that?” The set of his shoulders seemed less confident than his tone.

“Said I would.” I liked Sylvester cocky and sure. I added, “We’ll need a good-sized horse for someone your height. Quarter horses run on the small side but Kel Browning has some Fresian-Quarter crosses that run sixteen-plus hands and still have good cow sense.” I’d seen Kel’s son roping with a super talented bay gelding last county fair and man, I’d coveted that horse.

“What do you ride?”

“Whatever my boss needs me to ride. Tango, mostly. He’s a Paint gelding, fifteen-three, lots of cow sense. Dolly, she’s got some Thoroughbred in her, mixed with Quarter, a little high strung but she can cut like a dream. And we got an Appaloosa named Spot.”

“Original,” Sylvester drawled, and I liked that he had his sass back.

“Right? Spot’s a good girl, endurance to beat all the rest. If I need to be on horseback for a long day, I pick Spot.”

“No horse of your own?”

“Not anymore.” I’d had Pepper for eighteen years, which was more than some folks got, but not long enough. I’d only been able to afford her because I bought her off the boss when he thought she’d die of being orphaned. I’d hand reared her. “Had one but she colicked and I lost her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Been a couple years. She was kind of a brat.” But I could feel a fond smile grow, remembering. Two years had taken some of the sting out of my memories, and I could say, “I might’ve spoiled her a bit. I was just twenty when I got her.” Gave the boss every penny I’d saved and never regretted it. “She was an Appy too, white with black leopard spots, a tall girl.”

“Hm.” Sylvester looked like he was mulling something over, but he didn’t share. “Shall we check out the pasture?” He threw a glance at my feet. “You might want boots on.” I was about to say something along the lines of “No shit,” when he added, “Much as I like your feet bare.”

“You what?” I peered down at my toes. “I got three breaks, a dozen calluses, and a lot of miles on these things.”

“I told you, I’m hooked on a working cowboy. Come on, let’s go see what I’ve got.”

We went out the kitchen door together. The grass had grown up knee-high behind the house, but a beaten dirt track still led to the barn and pasture. I checked the corral gate first, then showed Sylvester how to test the fence boards for missing nails and cracks or give. We circled around and met on the far side. “A couple could stand more nails,” I said. “One that’s cracked and should be replaced. Your side?”

“The same. I guess a lumberyard is next.”

“Let me check the barn.” Whatever else you might say about old man Pascal— and apparently that was a lot more bad shit than just antisocial hermit— he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t run off to the lumberyard for every broken rail.

Sure enough, we found the stash of boards and rails in a stall in the barn. Hammer, pry bar, and nails in the tool room, and we were good to go. I quickly found I liked working with Sylvester. He took orders well, here where I knew what I was doing and he didn’t. He had some decent muscle, however he’d built it, and did his share. I made him put on gloves and was glad of it when the second board splintered to hell, coming off.

Half an hour was enough to make that corral good and solid. There was a lean-to in the corner that would give enough shelter till the snows came, and the tap for the water trough worked. The back gate opened into a pasture with good grazing, although I’d need to check the wire fence. “This’ll do for now, but the barn’s not in as bad shape as I expected. We can probably pick out a stall and use it. We’ll need to check the home pasture fence and no doubt string some wire and then you’ll have grazing space.”

Sylvester turned in a slow scan, taking in his ranch from the big fancy house to the weathered barn to the tall-grass pasture that led off to scraggly trees with the mountains behind. “Thanks.”

“I don’t mind nailing a few boards.”

“Not for that.” He turned back to me, his expression earnest. He’d got a bit of sun and the bridge of his nose was red. “For making me believe this can happen the way I envisioned it. For not being scornful like the so-called expert on Zoom. The dream from when I was ten doesn’t look so foolish when a guy like you breaks it down and keeps it real.”

I kicked a bit of dirt because I liked that a lot. I said, “Speaking of real, you better buy yourself a hat too, Rudolph.”

He touched his nose and laughed. “We’ll put it on the list. Want to go look at horses?”

I was never gonna say no to that. “What’s your budget?”

“If I say ‘Whatever I need to spend’ will you laugh?”

“Only if you say it around Browning when I’m trying to get you a deal. We should be able to stay under ten grand. You don’t need a horse with too much handle for someone starting out. You’ll want a pleasure ride, not a cutting horse.”

“We talked about having cows.”

“Yeah, eventually. We also talked about you hiring some hands who know what the hell they’re doing. You’re the boss, you need to be able to get around the ranch and supervise, but you’re not going to be ropin’ and cuttin’ for a year or two. Your horse can learn alongside you.”

“That makes sense.” Sylvester dusted his hands on his jeans. In his flannel over a T-shirt, with his hair wind-blown and his nose pink, he looked like a different guy from the city slicker who’d picked me up at Max’s. That guy was hot, but I liked this one a lot.

I said, “We should take my truck. Browning’s got a long drive up to his house. Not sure your Mustang would like the ruts. Besides, he sees that car and he’s going to tack an extra grand on the price of the horse.”

“I have the Highlander SUV.”

“You heard the ‘tack on extra’ bit?”

“Sure, your truck is fine. Let’s wash up and we can go.”

Having Sylvester there in the passenger seat was strange. Part of that was just having anyone next to me at all. But part was how wrong it didn’t seem to have him there, making comments about his fence as we drove along his property, and then asking about feed stores and who he might hire for general chores around the place. I answered, best as I could.

“Henderson’s is cheapest for feed,” I told him, “But if you go a bit farther to Nate’s Tractor Supply, you won’t get the feeling brown skin or a Spanish accent is a reason to jack up the price.”

“What about being gay?”

I shrugged. “Boss usually sends Jordy to get our orders from Henderson’s.” I had nothing to back up that feeling of a target on the back of my neck around Bob Henderson and his boys, but I didn’t think the way my boss never sent me there was accidental. He never sent Carlos either. Mr. Ford was no fool.

Sylvester nodded. “Nate’s Tractor Supply it is. Does your boss know you’re gay? Or bi, whatever?”

“Gay,” I told him. Wanted to make that clear. “And yeah, hell, most folks around here do. Word gets about, hard to keep things secret.” Especially after Deputy Morse made it a practice to come around Max’s, looking for “underage drinkers” and eyeing everyone that hadn’t run to hide in the back room with his beady eyes. Not that you couldn’t be straight and drink at Max’s, but, well, being a regular there meant you either were queer or you were fine with us. Same thing, in Morse’s eyes.

“Is that okay?”

I had to think back a bit. “My boss knowing? Sure, Mr. Ford’s a standup guy. As long as you get the work done and don’t fuck the sheep, he don’t care.”

“As long as what ?”

My chuckle made him stare, then snort.

He grunted, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, see, that he don’t care about.”

Sylvester gave me his full-on laugh where he threw his head back and the creases beside his eyes deepened. I liked that look a lot. He said, “Okay, talk to me about the horses.”

I spent some time talking about horses for dudes, how he wanted mounts with easy temperaments and a good handle, nothing too challenging. “Are you thinking about hosting kids, families?” I asked.

“I thought about it.” He picked at a thread on his artfully distressed jeans. Mine were thin at the knees from work, his worn on the thighs where the fashion designers figured the denim wouldn’t rip so quickly. “Dude ranches do well with family packages. But I thought maybe not the first year. Especially if I’m promoting it to the queer community. Not that there aren’t queer families, and maybe that’s even a niche we could go for, but I don’t want to have any gays-around-kids pearl clutching, while we figure out what this business looks like.”

I purely hated that he had to consider that, but he wasn’t wrong. “No need for ponies then,” was all I said. “Starting slow is smart.”

Kel Browning was getting on in years, his legs bowed from the saddle or maybe just arthritis, but he came out to meet us as we pulled up by the big, red barn. He had a nice spread, well kept-up with the trim bright white and the weeds cut down. He held out his hand as I got out of the truck. “McNeil, what can I do for you?”

“This is Sylvester—” I paused mid-word, realizing I’d never heard Sylvester’s last name. I’m so smart. Looking to go all in on a man I can’t even introduce.

“Georgiadis,” Sylvester said, giving the sound a little European flair. “Good to meet you. I’m looking for some horses, and Joe tells me you’re the man to come to.”

“Kel Browning.” They shook, Browning giving Sylvester a thorough once-over. I tried to see what he’d see— a tall, fit, middle-aged man in boots and jeans, but with that indescribable polish that said city and money. Might seem like a good thing to a man looking to sell horses. Sure not what Browning saw when he looked at me.

“What are you in the market for?” Browning asked.

“I’ll let Joe tell you.” Sylvester nodded my way. “For now, a riding horse up to my weight and legs.”

“You are a tall one,” Browning agreed. “How well do you ride?”

“I’m a bit rusty. Was on a horse every day as a kid, but only now and then since.”

“Something middling, then. That kind of childhood skill sticks with you.” He gestured with his chin. “Come on. Some of the choices I can think of right off are in the barn, and I’ll have my son bring in a couple more from pasture. Let’s see what suits.”

Sylvester grinned at me, his eyes bright as he followed Browning and I brought up the rear.

The next hour was me in a kind of Heaven. Browning brought out the horses he had that were over 15.2 and I got to give them each a spin. Man, he bred some fine stock. There was a bay mare who was quick off her feet like she was pure Quarter but sized for me. Too responsive for Sylvester, though. They’d confuse the hell out of each other. Same with the black gelding with one white sock and a star. God, I coveted that horse. Maybe rode him a bit extra, pretending I couldn’t make up my mind, just to feel how smooth he changed gears from jog to lope and back down, and how neat he turned on his haunches.

In the end, I had three good choices— a dapple-gray gelding with a roman nose and solid character, a chestnut mare with great conformation, and a palomino. I saw Sylvester’s face when that palomino was brought out, sun glinting off her gold coat, white mane tossing in the breeze. That man clearly liked pretty things. She had a real easy handle too, and her slow jog was a thing of beauty, smooth to sit as a rocking chair.

I had Sylvester try those three and watched real close as he mounted and rode. I could tell he wasn’t a beginner, but he bounced around some at a jog, even on the palomino. He did some basic reining and backing, then loped them around the corral we were working in and plowed to a stop.

“What do you think?” I asked when he’d given those three a good try. Browning leaned on the fence and let us talk.

“I don’t know. The grey seems a bit slow.”

“Yep. Might get him for a trail horse later. He’d be good for beginners. But you’ll outgrow him.”

I watched as he looked back and forth between the mares where they stood tied to the fence. The chestnut was a couple years older than the palomino and a sight more settled, but I could tell where his eyes kept wanting to land.

“Tell us more about the palomino,” I called to Browning. He came over and ran through her pedigree, what he’d trained her on so far, that she was a good keeper and not to let her have too much fresh pasture because she’d run to fat. He’d named her Aurora, but called her Ro for her stable name. Seemed as good as any.

“You think Ro would work for me?” Sylvester asked me.

“Sure do. She’s got some sense, but she’s only six, so she’ll learn your ways easy. I wouldn’t have put her in the final three if I didn’t think you could handle her.”

He nodded and turned to Browning. “I’ll take Ro then, and that black gelding with the star.”

“Whoa, now,” I told him. “I said you were doing good, not that you were ready for a horse like Donner.”

“Not for me. For you.”

“What now? You can’t buy me a horse.” No matter how my heart leaped, because dammit .

Sylvester glanced at Browning. “Excuse us a minute.” He jerked his chin toward the gate and I followed him out under the shade of a tree. “Listen up,” he began.

“Nope. No. You don’t get to tell me what to do at times like this.”

“Shush.” He moved closer and his presence overwhelmed me, the musky sweat and aftershave and long, tall, handsome man. “This is purely practical from my point of view.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You told me I need to ride the ranch, figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“What you’re dealing with,” because I wasn’t ready to be dragged in that deep yet.

“Sure. But I don’t know what the hell I’m looking at. You had to tell me how to check a fence rail. So I need you to ride along with me and explain the good and the bad and the fuckin’ ugly, and help me figure out costs and remedies. You can’t exactly hack over on one of your boss’s horses on your day off, can you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I need a horse for you to ride, and if I’m going to buy one, why not buy the one that fits you best.”

“Because he’s expensive!” I broke out. “Because you can get a hack suitable to carry me for three thousand, not eighteen thousand.” There might be a bit of wiggle room in Browning’s prices, but not likely much. We were coming into winter soon, and the market was soft. Feeding over winter cost some, so a breeder might sell lower this time of year, but not to the tune of fifteen K.

“Buying cheap is a bad bargain,” Sylvester intoned. “I own a watch worth that much, and it’s sitting in a box in my drawer.”

“Might not want to blab that about,” I said.

He waved an impatient hand. “What I mean is, I can afford it. Plus I want photos for our website, and Ro plus Donner in the pasture will look great. You riding on Donner as well, not some nag.”

“You want my picture?”

“On your horse, our Circle K cowboy experience. Yeah.”

“I don’t—” Man, I knew I should keep saying no, but part of me wanted that real bad. Not just Donner but the way he kept saying “our” like he meant it. He was putting the cart waaay ahead of the horse, or maybe the horse ahead of the barn, whatever. But when his eyes lit up and his voice went deep and intense, I had a hard time saying no. “If this doesn’t work out, you have to promise me you’ll sell him. Not give him to me as a gift or something.”

He held out his hand, little finger extended. “Pinky swear.”

“What are you, ten?” But I hooked my finger in his and that electric contact between us was there, even in the touch of his smallest finger. “Okay.”

Sylvester grinned at me then, wide as the Colorado sky, better than I’d ever seen. I’d do most anything for that grin. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go buy some horses.”