Chapter Fifteen Open Country #2
Hank closed his hand around the silver, then reached behind Drew's neck and fastened it again. His fingers lingered beneath the collar. "Good."
They undressed at the bank without hurry.
Neither man needed to turn his back or pretend indifference.
Boots stood side by side in the grass. Shirts went across a low branch.
Sun struck the planes of Hank's chest and the long scar at his ribs; it brightened the smaller marks Drew had come to know by touch.
Drew's interest showed as plainly as Hank's, a mutual response neither concealed.
Hank caught him looking and lifted one brow.
"Six months," he said, "and you still stare."
"I expect to improve with practice."
The water stole their breath. They waded until it reached their waists, then dove beneath the clear current.
Drew surfaced with his hair over his eyes and found Hank watching him with open hunger.
He pushed wet hair back and walked closer, enjoying the way Hank's attention followed every line of him.
"There," Drew said softly. "That is how you looked at the stockyard pump."
"You knew?"
"I turned around, didn't I?"
Hank's laugh was almost a growl. He caught Drew around the waist and pulled him through the water.
The kiss that followed tasted of the spring, clean and cold, while their skin grew warm wherever it met.
The current pressed around them. Drew braced one hand on Hank's shoulder and the other at the back of his neck, holding him there until the years of secrecy and the months of danger seemed to loosen their grip completely.
What passed between them afterward belonged not to a wager but to the freedom of having time.
They could pause to breathe, to tease, to say each other's names without fear that the sound would carry to an enemy.
Hank's strength remained thrilling; Drew's ability to guide that strength remained more so.
They moved from water to the blanket beneath the cottonwoods, laughing once when Hank's wet boot toppled into the shallows and falling quiet when laughter sharpened into need.
Later Drew rested with his head over Hank's heart. Sun dried the water on their skin. Hank drew idle lines down Drew's back, his touch neither asking nor claiming, simply there.
"Three letters came yesterday," Drew said.
"Business before supper. Knew it."
"The Mendoza brothers want to join. So does Mrs. Bellamy at Dry Creek. And Cole Anders wrote from the Panhandle."
Hank whistled softly. "Cole swore he'd rather drive cattle through hell than sign with partners."
"Apparently our rates compare favorably with hell."
"That puts us at eleven ranches."
"Twelve if Lucinda Shaw agrees after the fall sale."
Hank's hand stilled. "More cattle than I can manage alone."
"Fortunately, you are not alone."
The words were simple. They no longer needed to be dramatic. Hank resumed stroking his back. "You still set on taking the north herd?"
"I am."
"Hard country."
"You trained me."
"That ain't an answer."
Drew lifted his head. "I am good at it. The men know I am good at it. And if our partners are to believe this enterprise is truly ours, they need to see me do more than negotiate contracts in a clean coat."
"Your coats don't stay clean long."
"Because you have no restraint."
"Because you lean against cattle pens."
"That too."
Hank studied him. The protective instinct in him had not vanished; Drew would not have wanted it to. It had changed shape. Hank no longer protected by deciding for him. He asked, listened, argued, and sometimes lost.
"Sam will ride second," Hank said.
"Sam intends to retire before we kill him."
"Sam has intended that every spring for twelve years."
"Then Will."
Hank narrowed his eyes with exaggerated suspicion. "The handsome one?"
Drew grinned. "Jealousy sits very becomingly on you."
Hank rolled him beneath one smooth movement and held him there. "Keep talking."
"I usually do."
Their second kiss was less gentle, full of the old challenge, yet the hand Hank placed beneath Drew's head was careful.
Drew knew how much meaning lived in that contradiction.
He answered with equal certainty, meeting strength with quiet command until Hank's eyes closed and his forehead came to rest against Drew's.
By the time they dressed, the shadows had lengthened across the grass.
Drew poured the last coffee from a small flask while Hank retrieved the fugitive boot.
They sat at the spring and planned a drive that would begin after first frost: grazing stops, wage increases, a second chuck wagon, and a rule forbidding Sam from choosing cards on pay night.
"We should add another room," Drew said.
Hank looked over. "Office too small?"
"Not an office. A bedroom."
For once, Hank did not immediately understand. Then his gaze sharpened.
"Sam's sister wrote about a boy outside Abilene," Drew continued. "Fourteen. Lost his parents. Good with horses. Not much good with people, she says."
Hank looked down at his hands. They were rough, scarred hands, capable of turning a thousand-pound animal or touching Drew with astonishing patience. "You thinking apprentice?"
"At first. A place to sleep. Work that matters. Men who do not make him ashamed of whatever he becomes."
The spring ran on while Hank considered a future large enough to include another person. "We can ask him," he said at last. "No promises made over his head."
"No promises made over anyone's head."
Hank nodded. Drew reached for his hand. They stayed until the first star showed, then saddled in the violet dusk. At the edge of the cottonwoods Hank paused, looking back at the blanket, the water, and the place where their first dangerous game had become something enduring.
"Who won the race?" he asked.
"I did."
"We never reached the tree."
"You surrendered."
"I recollect winning twice."
Drew mounted with all the dignity he could gather. "The north herd is mine."
Hank settled into his saddle and let his knee brush Drew's. "We'll negotiate at home."
The promise in his tone sent a familiar pulse through Drew. He turned his horse toward the ranch light, smiling into the dark.
They rode home side by side beneath a wide field of stars, the ranch light waiting in the distance.
The country ahead remained hard, open, and uncertain.
It was theirs.
And neither man would ever be hungry alone.