Winter Cowboy

Prologue – early November 2012

Austin

“Boy, bring me a beer,” Dad yelled from the couch, a command I’d heard since I was old enough to open the fridge. I was almost seventeen now, but nothing had changed since the moment Mom left us, except maybe to get worse.

I hurriedly dug out one of his Bud Lights and carried the cold brew to him.

He sat slouched on the cushions, still wearing his deputy uniform, his sidearm strapped around his belly.

That was a bad sign. On the good days, he put his gun away in his bedside drawer and changed into sweats before drinking.

“Here.” I popped the tab for him and held out the can.

When he took the brew from me, I spotted a rusty red stain on the back of his hand. Looked like blood but I wasn’t about to ask. Good odds it wasn’t his. I was mostly glad it wasn’t mine.

“What’d you make for dinner, boy?” He took a long pull at his beer.

“Uh, soup?” I hadn’t actually started dinner because sometimes he got off shift late, and if dinner was overcooked or cold… let’s just say that was a bad thing. We had canned soup I could heat in five minutes.

“Soup’s no kind of dinner,” Dad grumbled, chugging from the can. “Make me some grilled cheese with it, and pickles. Fry up some mushrooms and onions. Go on, hop to it.”

“Yessir.” At least he’d given me directions, instead of randomly demanding I do better and then yelling at me for whatever I chose.

As I turned to head to the kitchen, though, he snapped, “Wait! You find another job yet? I won’t have you lazing about eating my food this year. You’re old enough to earn your keep.”

Jobs were hard to come by in a small town like Dover’s Ridge.

I’d worked in the Dairy Queen hut all summer and then after school for a month, but they shut down the end of September.

I’d been looking since then, but so was every other kid in my class, at least, the ones who didn’t have a family farm or store to work at. I faced him. “Not yet, sir.”

“Right. I got one for you. Mr. Ford, out at the Standing Rocks Ranch. He said he’d take you on as a barn boy.”

“I, um, don’t know much about ranch work.” I could ride a horse, thanks to a grade school friend with ponies. Those ponies had been one of my favorite things ever, but the occasional day of grooming and cleaning stalls hadn’t turned me into an expert.

“Well, you’re going to fucking learn, and fast. You’re my kid. You’re gonna show them you work hard and listen good, and no backtalk.”

“Why would Mr. Ford want me?” There were eighteen-year-old seniors with strong muscles and experience out looking.

“He owes me.” Dad set his empty beer can on the coffee table and stood. I knew better than to turn away as he strode over to me. He was only a few inches taller than me but much wider, and in moments like this he felt like a giant.

Dad shoved me against the wall and gripped my chin with one hand. “You’re going to work damned hard, you hear? If I get one word you’re slacking off, I’ll make you sorry. You’ll work after school to seven on weekdays, and a full day Saturday and Sunday.”

I didn’t ask when I’d do homework. Dad didn’t hold much stock in school, even though he had a couple of years of community college himself. I was smart, on track for some scholarships, but not brilliant enough to expect a full ride, and anything less meant I wasn’t trying hard enough…

“You’ll put some muscle on that skinny body, learn to walk and talk like a man.” He leaned closer, not letting go of my face. “Make me proud. You may look too much like a girl right now, but ranch work will make a man out of you.”

I squeezed out, “Yessir.”

“A wuss who’s scared of everything can’t join the sheriff’s department.

You need to toughen up. Listen to Ford, do what he says.

Oh, one other thing.” Dad lowered his hand and stared into my eyes, the danger-sign muscle in his jaw twitching.

I tried to stay as still and neutral as possible.

“There’s one of the hands out there, Joe McNeil.

You stay away from him. I told Ford, I don’t want you near McNeil.

You don’t talk to him, don’t go in a barn if he’s there, nothing. ”

My lips shaped the word, “Why?” but I managed not to say it.

Dad saw, though. “Why? He’s a queer, a pervert.

The kind of guy who’d put his hands all over a kid like you, given the chance.

Ford won’t fire the bastard, but he promised to keep you safe.

” Dad grinned then, a grin I wanted to be miles away from.

“One day, McNeil’s gonna step out of line where I can catch him, and he won’t be a problem anymore.

Till then, you keep your distance and tell me if he so much as breathes your way. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

Dad’s nasty grin became a laugh. He ran his hand over my head, rubbing the short stubble of my hair that he clipped with his razor every few weeks, as soon as any length started to show.

I thought the shave job made me look like jailbait on Prison Break, but Dad thought it made me look tough. Or at least, less of a total wimp.

I yanked my thoughts away from that show. One of my worst nightmares was Dad finding out I’d be fine sharing a cell with Wentworth Miller, so I stood as straight as I could and clenched my teeth to make my jaw look squarer.

Something worked, because Dad nodded, popped me lightly on the mouth with the back of his hand, not even cutting my lip, and said, “Nothing you can do about that girly mouth, but this job will be a start. Now I’m getting out of this uniform.

Put another beer on the coffee table for me before you start cooking. ”

“Yessir.”

“You’re a good kid, Frankie. Gonna do me proud. Now hustle.” He strode off toward his room.

When he was out of sight, I snatched up his empty can, ditched it in the recycling bin, and replenished the table with a fresh brew. Then I ducked into the kitchen and began opening cans into a pot on the stove. My hands were steady, but my mind raced through this news.

Ranch work was fine, hell, I’d prefer it to standing at the counter selling cones and fries and getting yelled at for random shit.

I liked animals, even though Dad never let me have a pet.

I liked the outdoors. I went running every morning, because I wasn’t built for fighting but speed never hurt, in a world where Dad wasn’t the only one to call me girly.

So I had more muscle than showed. No doubt, I’d be wishing I’d spent some of that time lifting weights, but I’d do my best.

But Joe McNeil? I knew him, at a distance.

Small town, most folks had at least seen each other now and then.

Fuck if Joe didn’t ring all my bells. Tall, blond, lean, and easy-moving, with big strong hands.

I’d been behind him in line at the hardware store once, and when the clerk got his request wrong, he corrected her with a laugh, not mad or anything.

His voice was more country than my dad’s and deeper, kinder.

Now I’d be working alongside Joe, and Dad said he was queer, like me. I’d thought I was dreaming of the straight guy, the time I jerked off in the shower thinking about Joe’s hands. I’d figured a guy like him wanting to touch a guy like me was just a fantasy.

Probably still was, since Joe had to be pushing thirty and wouldn’t be interested in a high schooler.

Had to be just fantasy, or Dad would kill me.

The truth of that thought sent ice water through me. I knew I was gay, had for years, but Dad had no clue, and keeping my head on my neck depended on him never finding out.

Dad was my sole parent, ever since Mom took off and left me when I was ten. He didn’t smack me around as much as he had Mom, but a temper simmered underneath the cool cop face he wore in public, along with a hate for everyone Black, brown, Asian, or queer.

Dad probably thought he loved me. Maybe, in his own way, he did. He talked me up to other folks, full of praise even while he busted my ass over the smallest mistakes at home.

Didn’t matter. Any love, no matter how small, would never survive the words, “I’m gay.”

Which meant I could never say those words, could barely think them. I’d keep my distance from Joe McNeil on the ranch, because I didn’t know who might snitch to Dad, either sharing his views or out of fear. Dad sure didn’t mind flashing his badge to get what he wanted.

I had eight more months till I graduated, earlier than most. A year till I turned eighteen. I couldn’t run a moment sooner than eighteen. Dad would have every cop in the state looking for me. But the moment that birthday came, I’d be gone.

The soup sputtered as it warmed, and I grabbed a spoon to stir the bottom so nothing burned.

A year and a month, maybe some money from the job, time to watch Joe McNeil and figure out how he walked through the world unscathed as a gay man. Then I’d head for the west coast. Maybe San Francisco—

Ouch! A sharp blow to the back of my head was followed by the clatter of a beer can hitting the tiles by my feet. Empty, luckily. I bent and picked the can up, blinked hard to steady myself, and turned.

Dad stood in the doorway in his sweats, frowning at me. “Where the hell’s the grilled cheese? If I wanted a fucking can of soup for dinner, I could make it myself.”

“Sorry. Coming right up. Do you want another beer?” Sometimes he was better if he got drunker. Sometimes he was worse.

“Sure. Why not? I’ll put the game on, but I want that food out here in five minutes. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

He turned and stomped off toward the couch.

I got the beer, bread, butter, and cheese out of the fridge, and set a skillet on the stove. Oh, and pickles. He said pickles, mushrooms, onions. I dug those out too, then took a breath.

One more year. The words echoed in my head, as I carried Dad’s beer out to him. One more year, if I managed not to fuck up playing straight, and I’d be gone.