Chapter Five The Mark He Chooses
Three days after the stampede, the drive reached Mason Creek Ranch beneath a sky the color of hot iron.
The place belonged to Abel Dunn, an old friend of Sam’s with four sons, two married daughters, and enough corrals to hold the mixed herd while brands were checked.
The main house sat behind cottonwoods, whitewashed and broad-roofed.
A windmill turned above the well. To men who had eaten dust for days, the ranch looked like a hotel.
Abel met Hank at the gate.
“You look worse every year,” the old rancher said.
“You were blind last year.”
“Only in the left eye.”
They shook hands.
Abel’s attention moved to Drew, who sat Ghost several places behind Sam. “New man?”
“Temporary,” Hank said.
The word struck Drew harder than it should have.
He had no right to resent it. Everything about his place on the drive was temporary: the borrowed name, the trail clothes, the nights beside Hank. Yet hearing Hank define him that way in daylight made the black bandanna around his wrist feel foolish.
Abel gave Drew a long look. “Does not look temporary.”
Hank’s jaw tightened. “We need the south corrals.”
“They are yours. Well too. My boys found seven strays near the lower pasture wearing no clear brand. Might belong to your bunch.”
The herd entered the corrals in rolling clouds of dust.
Work began immediately. Cattle from seven ranches had mingled, and the trail tally had to remain exact. Men sorted by ear marks and brands while Sam recorded numbers. Strays and calves born since spring required fresh marking.
The branding fires were lit after noon.
Heat from the coals joined the heat from the sun until the corral became a furnace. Smoke drifted low. Cattle bawled. Men shouted over the noise while ropes tightened, iron hissed, and the smell of burned hair and leather filled the air.
Drew removed his coat before the first hour ended.
His shirt followed during the second.
He worked in a white undershirt gone nearly transparent with sweat, the cloth clinging to his chest and back.
Soot marked his throat. His hair curled damply at the edges beneath his hat.
Every time he bent to catch a rope or brace against a yearling, the muscles along his shoulders shifted beneath the wet fabric.
Hank watched from across the branding fire.
He tried not to.
That distinction mattered less with every passing minute.
Drew knew.
The certainty showed in the deliberate way he raised his arms to retie his hair, stretching the undershirt tight over his body.
His gaze found Hank’s through the smoke.
He held it while drinking from a water dipper, letting the remaining water escape the corner of his mouth and travel down his throat.
Hank’s body hardened visibly beneath his dusty trousers.
He turned away and nearly walked into Sam.
“Careful,” Sam said. “Fire is hot.”
“I am aware.”
“Was not talking about the fire.”
Hank picked up an iron with more force than necessary.
The work continued.
By late afternoon, soot covered everyone. Drew’s palms had reopened beneath his gloves. He ignored the sting until Will caught him beside the well and took the rope from his hand.
“You are bleeding.”
“It is hardly mortal.”
“You are leaving blood on the line.”
Will filled a basin and set it on the trough. Drew removed his undershirt and bent over the water. It had warmed in the sun, but it carried away dust and smoke.
Will stood behind him with a cloth.
“I can wash myself,” Drew said.
“Your back disagrees.”
Before Drew could object, Will wiped soot from one shoulder blade. The gesture was practical, no different from men helping each other after work. But Will’s free hand settled lightly at Drew’s waist to steady him.
Drew looked across the yard.
Hank stood beside the barn.
The branding iron in his hand had gone still.
His expression was unreadable from a distance. His stance was not. Jealousy held every hard line of him, accompanied by an arousal he could not entirely hide beneath his belt.
Drew should have stepped away from Will.
Instead, he let the cloth pass across his back a second time.
Hank set down the iron.
He crossed the yard with a calm that warned of violence more effectively than haste.
“White.”
Drew turned. “Rourke.”
“Barn. Now.”
Will’s hand left his waist. “I was cleaning a cut.”
Hank did not look at him. “Then you are finished.”
Drew’s pulse quickened.
He took his undershirt from the trough but did not put it on. Bare-chested, he followed Hank into the barn.
The door closed behind them.
Inside, dust became gold in the shafts of late sunlight. Horses shifted in the stalls. The air smelled of hay, sweat, and old wood.
Hank kept walking until they reached an empty tack room at the rear. He entered, waited for Drew, and pulled the door nearly shut.
“What was that?” he asked.
Drew leaned against the wall. “Soap and water.”
“Carter’s hand was on you.”
“He was helping me wash.”
“You appeared capable at the spring.”
“And you appeared capable of speaking to me without issuing an order. We were both mistaken.”
Hank closed the distance. “You knew I was watching.”
“Yes.”
“You let him touch you for my benefit.”
“Partly.”
The honesty inflamed him. “You wanted to make me jealous.”
“I wanted you to stop treating me as invisible whenever another man can see us.”
Hank planted both hands on the wall beside Drew. “We agreed. No daylight demands.”
“I made none.”
“You provoked me.”
“You chose to come in here.”
Hank’s gaze dropped.
Drew had not put on his undershirt. Sweat shone across his chest. His trousers rode low after the day’s work, and the effect of Hank’s nearness was already unmistakable beneath them.
“You are hard,” Hank said.
“So are you.”
“That does not prove anything.”
“It proves this is not one-sided.”
Hank looked toward the narrow gap in the door. Men moved outside, voices drifting through the barn. Discovery was unlikely but possible.
The risk thickened the silence.
“You belong to this drive,” Hank said. “While you ride under me, your safety is mine.”
Drew’s expression changed. “My safety is not what brought you into this room.”
“Carter does not know what you are asking for.”
“I did not ask him for anything.”
“You let him put his hands on you.”
Drew caught Hank’s belt and pulled him close. Their bodies met with enough force to make both men inhale.
“You do not own me,” Drew said.
Hank’s hand closed around the back of his neck. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then say why you are angry.”
Hank looked at him as if the words were more dangerous than any weapon.
Drew waited.
The silence stretched until he wondered whether Hank would leave rather than answer.
Finally, Hank said, “Because I wanted to be the one touching you.”
The admission stripped jealousy of its disguise.
Drew’s grip softened at Hank’s belt. “That is different.”
“No, it is not.”
“It is everything.”
He kissed Hank.
The trail boss met him with the force he had contained all afternoon. One rough hand stayed at Drew’s neck; the other moved over his bare side, collecting sweat and soot. Drew felt the hard line of Hank’s desire through their clothes, insistent and unmistakable.
Hank turned him against the wall.
For several heated seconds, Drew allowed it. He let Hank take the kiss, let the anger turn into hunger, let himself be surrounded by the size and strength of the man.
Then he pushed.
Hank stepped back more from surprise than force.
Drew reversed their positions, caught both Hank’s wrists, and held them against the wall.
The movement awakened the private part of Hank that wanted release from command. Drew saw it happen. Resistance left the other man’s shoulders, replaced by a different tension.
“This is what frightens you,” Drew said.
Hank’s breathing was rough. “Carter does not frighten me.”
“Not Carter. Wanting something you cannot order to stay.”
Hank’s eyes hardened.
Drew loosened his grip but did not release him. “I can walk out.”
“You will not.”
“Because you command it?”
“No.” Hank leaned forward until their mouths almost met. “Because you are as jealous as I am.”
Drew laughed once, breathlessly. “Of whom?”
“Everyone who knew you before I did.”
The answer pierced deeper than possession.
Drew kissed him again, this time without contest.
The room became heat and restrained sound.
They moved against each other with the frantic urgency of men who had spent hours pretending not to look.
Hank’s shirt opened beneath Drew’s hands.
Drew’s bare back met rough boards. Their desire remained visible whenever they separated, but neither hurried toward relief.
The argument had opened something that demanded more than bodies.
Hank pressed his forehead to Drew’s. “Tell me what you want.”
The question mattered because Hank rarely asked.
Drew touched the scar at his ribs through the open shirt. “I want you to choose me when no one is making you.”
“I came here.”
“You came angry.”
“I stayed.”
Drew held his gaze.
Outside, a horse stamped in the aisle. A man laughed near the corral.
Inside, Hank lowered himself to his knees.
Drew’s breath stopped.
There was no mockery and no defeat in it. Hank placed both hands at Drew’s waist and looked up as if choosing the vulnerability with full awareness of its cost.
“You do not own me either,” he said.
Drew’s hand entered his hair. “I know.”
“Say why you are here.”
“Because I wanted your hands on me.”
“And now?”
Drew’s voice shook. “Because I want all the things you do not know how to give.”
Hank stood slowly.
“Teach me,” he said.
The word undid them.
Their encounter remained fierce, but the power moved back and forth without either man keeping it.
Hank lifted Drew onto the workbench, then allowed Drew to pull him close and set the pace.
Drew demanded honesty with every held look.
Hank answered with tenderness whenever jealousy threatened to become possession.
They stayed quiet for the men outside, mouths swallowing each other’s sounds.