14. Jake
Jake
The rain let up, but the work didn’t. I herded cattle out of the lower pens and up to higher pastures. Head bent forward, rain running off the brim of my hat.
Jesse had loaned me a yellow slicker, and the other fellows wore theirs, and we glowed like yellow lamplights in the gray-shrouded night.
It was cold, as well, for mid-July, but that was to be expected at the beginning of Colorado’s monsoon season.
If we could get all the cattle to safe spaces, then figuring out better drainage for the lower pastures could wait until the storm passed.
One of the fences, the long fence on the very northernmost pasture, had gone down.
When I last checked it early in the spring, it had been fine.
What had happened since then was unclear: a tumble of rocks, maybe, or runoff on slanted ground.
Either way, now, in the dark, it marked dangerous passage for the cattle.
I volunteered to stay behind to make sure that the cattle didn’t run through the gap in search of greener grass. Beyond the gap was a small canyon and rough ground where they could get hurt or trapped by mountain lions. It was best they stay where they were safe.
Straight wire you could loop to your saddle. Barbed wire you could not. Once the rain stopped and the ground dried, we could bring in the ATV with rolls of barbed wire and make proper work of it.
Malcolm and Jesse rode back to the ranch for coils of straight wire and nails. Hammers. Thicker gloves.
Buddy and I were left on that hillside, standing guard in the dark. The rain sliding down his dark mane, making lace of it. Along his fetlocks and the back of my neck. Across my cheeks. Making me feel wet through to the bone.
It was too dark to see much, but I had a full-sized Maglite that I could turn on and pass over the backs of the cattle, the dripping grass and rocks, the gap in the fence. Looking for the flashback of predator eyes. Guarding the broken places in the fence line with my body. With Buddy.
I might have been miserable, operating into the night, if not for the recent memories sifting around me, settling like a blanket. Keeping me warm, tucked in my heart. Keeping me company.
The innocent walk along Snow Creek that I had proposed had not turned out as I had expected. Not to my disappointment, but to my pleasure.
I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth as though I could still taste his sweet lips. The salt of his skin. The bitter salt of his cum that had filled my mouth all at once.
I remembered his mouth on me in the glade of cottonwoods as the sky grew dark with rain. He’d been so bold. I’d been surprised, but not displeased.
I had thought more hand-holding would be in order. That I’d have to court him slowly. But maybe his being a city boy had made him braver than I.
The feel of the ribs of that cottonwood tree had been branded into my back in long stripes. The first touch of his hand on my belly, a revelation. The sigh of his breath over the head of my cock before he licked me, a spell.
There’d been something magic in that glade. That spot in the bend of the river where the cottonwoods grew.
Then, in my bunkhouse, I’d been able to see to him. To suck him off on my familiar bed in the soft darkness, on my bed in a nest of pillows, quilts, and cotton sheets. With him sprawled out naked before me in the semidarkness. Willing. Tender. His skin soft beneath my rough hands.
If not for cattle and fences and dire tasks that needed tending, I would have fucked him. He would have been willing, then and there, to let me fuck him, but I’d delayed, all for the want of something soft to ease my way into his body. Or his into mine.
Either way would be fine by me. Either way, I simply wanted as much time with him as possible before he had to go back to work in the big city.
He’d have been willing to stay the night. I’d sensed it in his languor, the way he curled in my arms, our legs tangled, his head on my shoulder, his hair soft as eiderdown against my neck.
We’d been interrupted, but those memories lingered. Kept me company.
Inside of an hour, Malcolm was back, pulling up alongside me with a quick draw of rain-slicked reins and a flap of slicker. Water everywhere. Dampness.
“They’re going to open up the Mercantile for that straight wire,” he said. “Turns out we don’t have any on hand. Not to mention—” He sighed and tipped his head forward. Rain fell from the brim of his hat. “That one herd of horses needs bringing up, as well. I’ll stand guard. Go get a fresh mount.”
I was glad for the direction. I could stay out all night if I had to, but I was starting to feel bad for Buddy, who was getting tired. Of standing watch. Of the rain. He was a tough horse, that was for certain. But he was also my baby.
Never let anyone say that cowboys didn’t love their horses. It was a lie.
With a nod and an adjustment to the brim of my hat, I guided Buddy down the slope, and we picked our way along the watery hillside to the ranch. In the barn, I saw by the old clock hung on a nail in the wood that it was two in the morning. Way past Buddy’s bedtime.
In the relatively dusty dry of the barn, I unsaddled Buddy, put his soft green halter on, and then dried him off with a chamois cloth.
I made sure his hooves were clean and mostly dry.
I put extra straw in his box stall. Filled his water trough.
Gave him corn and oats in his feed trough.
Small hunks of sugar. Two horse cookies. A big hug around his neck.
Then I went and saddled Snowball, a gray-and-white mare who was, on paper, worth ten times as much as Buddy.
She would go until morning if I asked her.
Donning the slicker and my damp hat once more, I mounted her and went to the pasture where the horses were.
The rain was less intense now, though I expected it would jump back into action come morning.
There were only ten horses that weren’t being ridden that night, all of which needed rescuing from the small pasture and soggy ground. And with me upon Snowball’s back, we guided them to safety.
I was merely a passenger who opened gates and sat there like a lump in the saddle while she herded. She decided the path to the upper pastures. She nipped at horses that were going too slow.
She let me ride her, but that was because I had experience. Put a less experienced rider on her back, one who was unaware that she was in charge, and she’d twitch them into the dust. Even so, for me she would do anything.
Just before sunrise, as the rain turned to fog, I was back in the barn with the other ranch hands, unsaddling Snowball, giving her heaps of praise as I tended to her.
Heaps of praise, because she was a tad vain and considered herself the princess of the ranch.
And for good reason. She was AQHA certified but had somehow ended up in a common auction, where Walter, seeing her for who she was, had been the highest bidder.
It was still way before breakfast when Cameron and Dillon came to the barn, snug in their ratty hoodies and sneakers, emerging from the fog like two young ghosts.
Dillon took one look at me and tore off out of the barn, but Cameron came up to me.
“Can we help?” he asked, looking at other riders and their horses coming into the barn, dripping with rain and exhaustion.
“Yes, you can,” I said, impressed by his attitude. “Go to each ranch hand. Carry water to their horses. Fill stalls with straw. Take tack away to be cleaned. Ask them what else they need. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Mr. Jake,” he said. “I got you, bro.”
He went to help where he could, and I finished getting Snowball settled in her stall.
When I was done with her, a wave of fatigue hit me, and I sat on a closed grain bin, one of the old wooden ones from the time when the ranch was to become a dude ranch, but hadn’t. The slats were solid beneath me.
My socks were soaked. My boots would need drying, stuffed with rags. A coating of leather balm. A buff. They were old boots, but they fit my feet just fine.
With my hat beside me on the bin, I let my body relax amidst the bustle in the barn, which became low, comforting music. Conversation. Movement. Other people.
My chin fell to my chest. I knew I was nodding off. I knew I needed to get back to work.
Had someone made it to the Mercantile for straight wire?
Or were they still guarding the gap and, once the ground was dry enough, needed someone to ATV the rolls of barbed wire and the fence stretchers?
The wire tighteners. Clippers. Nails. I’d be willing to head back up if I could just keep my eyes open. But they slid shut.
I blinked awake to see Dalton there, bundled against the cold, holding two battered thermoses. He was kneeling in the scattered straw at my feet. Or, rather, kneeling between my feet; between my thighs, which I’d spread to stretch out sore leg muscles, but which now presented a come-hither air.
With a thumping heart, I sat up and leaned forward.
Without a word, he held out one of the thermoses. “Ruth is rounding up the troops,” he said. “Dillon and some other boys are bringing more thermoses of coffee, and Ruth is opening the kitchen early for breakfast.”
“Oh.”
I’d never been more surprised. Sure, those LGBT kids helped where they could, chipped in, shouldered the work.
Only during daytime hours, though. Never before dawn, where even now the fog was turning to a heavy mist, cloaking the open doors at either end of the barn.
A shroud of gray darkness settled in. Cold air sweeping through open places.
Doors. Shirt collars. Cold air racing over night-chilled skin.
Sure enough, Ruth and Dillon came through those open doors with a lid-less cooler, which they carried by the handles. Thermoses clunked against each other inside.