Chapter One The Man in the Clean Shirt #3
Hank lay apart from the other men, one arm beneath his head, hat covering his face.
Even in rest, he seemed to hold the shape of command.
Drew remembered the rough warmth of Hank’s thumbs moving across his palms. He remembered the trail boss at the pump, trying and failing to hide the hard evidence of his desire.
He remembered Hank’s hands closing around his waist beside the tack wagon—and the moment fear, not disinterest, made him let go.
Drew’s body stirred again beneath his trousers, desire arriving with an ache of guilt.
He folded the letter and held one corner over a match.
The flame licked upward.
For three seconds, he considered letting his father’s orders burn.
Then duty, habit, and thirty-five years of obedience won. He extinguished the match, returned the letter to its hiding place, and fastened the saddlebag.
Drew read the letter twice beneath the dim light of a stockyard lantern.
Andrew—Record every water source, alternate crossing, defensible ridge, and section where the herd may be delayed.
Assess Rourke's debts, his relations with neighboring outfits, and the loyalty of his men.
Do not mistake rustic stubbornness for strength.
All men have a price or a weakness. Find his.
Warren had not signed it Father. He rarely did when issuing an order.
Drew folded the page along its old crease.
The stationery smelled faintly of cigar smoke from the private railcar in which it had been written.
Around him, nearly three thousand cattle shifted behind the pens.
The sound resembled distant weather: hooves on packed earth, horns striking wood, deep bodies breathing as one.
He had expected discomfort. He had not expected the stockyard to feel alive in ways Warren's boardrooms never did.
From the shadow beyond the tack wagon came the scrape of a boot.
Drew slipped the letter inside his shirt. "You may come out."
Hank Rourke stepped into the lantern light.
"Giving orders already?" Hank asked.
"Offering hospitality."
"My wagon."
"Then your hospitality is lacking."
The confrontation beside the tack wagon had ended only minutes earlier, if an exchange that still vibrated through Drew's body could be called ended.
Hank had demanded truth. Drew had admitted concealment without naming it.
They had stood chest to chest while the trail boss warned that every move would be watched.
Now Hank's gaze went to the place inside Drew's shirt where the letter lay. "Reading?"
"A private vice."
"What kind of book fits there?"
"A very short one."
Hank came closer. The lantern emphasized the weather carved into his face: lines at the eyes, sun-dark skin, a pale scar near the jaw. At forty-two he carried physical authority without display. Men moved when he spoke because delay seemed foolish.
Drew's body had recognized that authority at the pump and again beside the wagon. It recognized it now. Arousal tightened visibly beneath his borrowed trousers. He could have shifted into shadow. Instead he allowed Hank to see.
Hank saw. The answering response beneath his denim was equally plain, and his expression hardened as though desire were an insubordinate hand.
"You do that deliberately," he said.
"Do what?"
"Stand where the light catches you."
"You told me I would be watched. It seemed courteous to assist."
Hank's hand rose, stopping just short of Drew's shirtfront. If he touched him there, he would feel the letter.
Drew did not retreat.
"Old riding calluses," Hank said. "No rope scars. Fine speech. Railroad-quality boots covered in dust to make them look common. You ain't looking for wages."
"Everyone is looking for wages of some kind."
"What's yours?"
Drew thought of Warren's approval, the executive position promised after successful assessment, and the freedom he had been foolish enough to believe might follow obedience. Then he thought of Hank's rough thumb tracing the callus beneath his finger earlier that day.
"I have not decided," he said.
Hank's gaze moved to his mouth. "Dangerous answer."
"Honest one."
"First tonight."
The words should have insulted him. Instead they felt intimate.
Hank lowered his hand without touching the concealed letter. "We move before sunrise. Bell at three. You ride east flank behind Carter. Horse acts up, you sit it. Cattle break, you follow orders. Man gets hurt, you help before you ask who caused it."
"And if the trail boss gets hurt?"
"Trail boss doesn't."
"A comforting superstition."
Hank leaned in until the brim of his hat shadowed them both. "You keep testing me, White, you'll learn the difference between superstition and warning."
Their breath mingled. Drew could smell coffee, leather, and the clean water Hank had used after the day's work. Hunger moved through him with such force that for one reckless instant he considered closing the final inch.
Hank considered it too. Drew saw the decision form and be denied.
"Three o'clock," Hank repeated.
He walked toward the sleeping camp.
Drew waited until the darkness had swallowed him, then exhaled. The letter beneath his shirt felt damp from sweat.
He should have returned to his bedroll. Instead he climbed the rail of an empty pen and sat above the cattle.
Stockyard lamps stretched in crooked rows toward town.
Somewhere a saloon piano stumbled through the same eight bars.
The night smelled of manure, hay, smoke, and distant rain that might never arrive.