Chapter Three The Water-Stop Wager
Drew woke with Hank’s bandanna tied around his wrist.
He had not meant to keep it. Sometime before leaving the arroyo, Hank had used the faded black cloth to wipe dust from Drew’s face and blood from the cut at his shoulder. It had remained in Drew’s hand when they dressed, and he had wrapped it around his wrist before returning to camp.
In dawn light, it looked dangerously like a claim.
He sat on his bedroll while the other men rose, pulled on boots, and complained about coffee. Hank stood near the chuck wagon with Sam, reviewing the day’s route. He did not look toward Drew.
Not once.
Drew told himself the omission was prudent. By daylight they had agreed to no claims and no demands. What had happened in the arroyo belonged to darkness.
His body had not accepted the arrangement.
Every movement recalled something. The pressure of the saddle awakened the memory of Hank’s weight.
The pull of his shirt over his shoulders recalled rough hands opening it.
Even the taste of coffee brought back Hank’s mouth, whiskey-warm and furious, softening only after desire had stripped the anger away.
Will Carter dropped onto the ground beside him.
“You look well rested.”
Drew tied his boot. “You look intrusive.”
“That is because I slept.”
“So did I.”
“Not here.”
Drew looked at him.
Will held up both hands. “I did not see anything. I only saw you leave, Hank follow, and both of you return looking as if you had survived a private weather event.”
“Your imagination is undisciplined.”
“My imagination has never limped at breakfast.”
Drew tightened the last knot hard enough to hurt. “If you value the continued function of your mouth, you will use it for coffee.”
Will glanced at the bandanna around his wrist but said nothing.
Across camp, Hank finally looked over.
The sight of the cloth stopped him.
Their gazes held. Everything that had happened in the arroyo passed silently between them: Drew reversing their positions, Hank allowing it, the long stillness afterward.
Hank’s expression revealed none of it, but his body did.
Even from across the fire, Drew could see the subtle change in his stance, the way his coat shifted when desire tightened beneath it.
Then Sam handed him a map, and daylight reclaimed them.
The herd reached clear water shortly before noon.
The spring emerged from limestone beneath a stand of cottonwoods, cold enough to numb a man’s fingers. It fed a broad pool before running east through waist-high grass. Hank ordered the cattle watered in groups to prevent them from trampling the banks.
The crew celebrated as if they had reached civilization.
Men stripped off shirts, filled canteens, and splashed water over heads turned gray with dust. Cookie declared that anyone who entered the pool before he filled the barrels would be shot and seasoned. Nobody doubted him.
Once the wagons were supplied, Sam proposed a roping contest.
The idea spread immediately. They marked a line between two cottonwoods and released three yearlings from a holding pen one at a time. Each rider would pursue, rope, and bring his animal to a stop. Fastest time earned the last bottle of Kentucky bourbon in Sam’s private box.
“You said there was no bourbon,” Hank told him.
“I said there was no bourbon for general consumption.”
“This appears general.”
“This is competition. Entirely different principle.”
Hank looked over the eager crew. “We are wasting daylight.”
“The cattle need three hours to water and graze.”
“Two.”
“Then the boys will rope quickly.”
Drew leaned against a tree, sleeves rolled, Hank’s bandanna still at his wrist.
“You entering, White?” Sam asked.
Hank answered for him. “He is not.”
Drew’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
“Because you have already proved you can ride.”
“And you are concerned I may prove I can rope.”
Several hands made appreciative sounds.
Hank gave Drew a slow look. “Enter if you want.”
“I want.”
“Try not to get yourself killed for the second day in a row.”
Drew smiled. “Try not to require saving.”
The crew arranged itself along the makeshift course.
Will went first and posted a respectable time.
Sam’s throw was perfect, but his old knee cost him dismounting speed.
Hank rode sixth. He took the yearling cleanly, loop dropping over its horns almost before it began to run.
He brought the animal around, wrapped the rope, and stopped the clock to a roar from the men.
“Twenty-two seconds,” Sam called.
Hank dismounted and handed off his horse. Sweat darkened his shirt beneath the arms and across his chest. He looked directly at Drew.
“Still want to try?”
Drew untied Hank’s bandanna from his wrist and wrapped it around his palm for grip. “More than before.”
He chose Ghost.
The roan remained unpredictable, but Drew understood him now. He felt the tension gathering beneath the horse before Sam opened the pen. The yearling broke left.
Ghost followed as though anger and speed were the same thing.
Drew built the loop while riding. The rope went out, widened in sunlight, and dropped. It caught one horn, slid, then settled around both. Drew dallied the line around the saddle horn and turned Ghost before the yearling reached open grass.
The animal swung.
Dust rose.
Drew released tension before the rope snapped, gathered it again, and brought the yearling to a stop.
“Twenty-one,” Sam shouted.
For half a second, the only sound was the yearling bawling.
Then Will whooped loud enough to frighten birds from the cottonwoods.
Drew rode back slowly. The pleasure of victory warmed him, but it was nothing beside Hank’s expression. The trail boss looked irritated, impressed, and aroused in equal measure. His gaze moved from the rope in Drew’s hand to the saddle between his thighs and stayed there a dangerous moment.
Sam offered Drew the bourbon.
Drew took it, then held the bottle out to Hank.
“Share it with me tonight.”
The crew heard only generosity.
Hank heard the challenge.
His eyes narrowed. “You won it.”
“That is why I decide how it is used.”
Sam looked from one man to the other and abruptly found the stopwatch fascinating.
Hank accepted the bottle. Their fingers brushed around the glass.
Drew lowered his voice. “Winner chooses.”
“Chooses what?”
“You know.”
Hank’s hand tightened. “And if I win next time?”
“I suppose I will discover what you want.”
The unmistakable response beneath Hank’s trousers was partly concealed by his gun belt, but not from a man standing this close. Drew’s own desire answered, sharp and immediate.
Hank leaned nearer. “You may regret giving me that privilege.”
Drew held his gaze. “Then win it.”
For the rest of the afternoon, the private wager existed between them like a second sun.
Every order carried an undercurrent. Every glance became a promise deferred until darkness. Drew rode swing rather than drag, promoted without explanation. Whenever their paths crossed, Hank looked at the black bandanna wrapped around Drew’s palm.
Near sunset, the cattle settled around the spring. Cookie built his fire on the eastern bank. Men washed in the pool by turns, shouting at the cold and insulting one another’s cleanliness.
Drew waited.
He ate supper, volunteered for a late watch, and watched the camp grow quiet. Hank sat with Sam near the fire until only red coals remained. They discussed the next water point and a narrow crossing two days north.
Drew left first.
He carried the bourbon and two canteens to the upper spring, beyond the cottonwoods where limestone formed a private basin beneath the trees. Moonlight reached the water in broken pieces.
He removed his boots and waited.
Hank arrived ten minutes later.
“You assume I accepted the wager.”
“You brought the bottle.”
Hank held it up. “You gave me the bottle.”
“And you brought it.”
The trail boss set it on a flat stone. “You enjoy arranging situations so every answer proves you right.”
“I enjoy watching you pretend you have not already decided.”
Hank removed his hat. “What did you decide for me?”
Drew stepped into the water fully clothed.
Cold closed over his boots and climbed his legs. He kept walking until he stood thigh-deep in the moonlit basin. Then he began opening his shirt.
Hank did not move.
“Come here,” Drew said.
It was the first direct order he had given him.
Hank’s face changed.
Drew removed his shirt and laid it across the bank. Water silvered his chest. His trousers clung to him, outlining the hard shape of his arousal with an honesty darkness could not soften.
Hank’s gaze moved downward.
“You won a roping contest,” he said. “Not ownership.”
“Good. I do not want ownership.”
“What do you want?”
“For one hour, I want you to stop carrying everyone.”
The answer erased Hank’s defiance.
Drew held out his hand. “Come here.”
Hank took off his coat, gun belt, and boots. He left the rest of his clothing on and entered the spring.
The cold made him inhale. Drew closed his hand around Hank’s wrist and drew him deeper until they stood chest to chest.
“Turn around,” Drew said.
Hank hesitated, then obeyed.
Drew opened his shirt from behind and pushed the wet fabric from his shoulders. Hank’s back was broader than the moonlight had shown in the arroyo, marked by work, old injury, and one long pale scar that curved beneath his ribs. Water ran over the hard planes of him.
Drew dipped the bandanna into the spring.
He washed Hank slowly.
The cloth traveled over sun-heated shoulders, down the center of his back, and along the scar at his side. Hank stood rigid at first. Each careful pass removed dust and resistance together. His head lowered. His breathing deepened.
“No one does this for you,” Drew said.
“It is not necessary.”
“That was not an answer.”
Hank’s hands closed at his sides. “No.”
Drew washed the back of his neck. “Why?”
“Men expect me to know where we are going.”
“You do.”
“They expect me to bring them home.”
“You will.”
“They expect certainty.”
Drew set the cloth aside and replaced it with his hands. “I do not.”
Hank turned.