15. Jake
Jake
We were back to work the next morning, of course—ranch work never stopped—though it wasn’t until afternoon that the rain let up and the sun finally blazed through the clouds, yellow and white slices of warmth among the gray swirls.
With the weather improving, I drove cattle down the foothills.
Horses, too. Sure-footed and willing, Buddy and Snowball took turns carrying me, no matter whether it was uphill or down.
On Sunday, I made adjustments to the straight-wire portion of the fencing, which was easier now that it was daylight and I didn’t have to hold a flashlight in my teeth.
I watched for the mountain lion that Jesse had told me he’d seen once again.
I was so busy that I missed lunch, but that was okay because when my chores were done and the workday was finally over, I saw Dalton waiting at the barn doors.
Waiting for me. Looking dapper in his white button-down shirt, though I noticed he’d stopped wearing the tasseled loafers.
Rather, he had on those borrowed boots that peeked out from beneath the tailored hem of his office trousers.
Worn to the bone, I smiled as I walked up to him, wanting to pull him to me and hug him with everything I had. But instead of a grand display, I took off my hat and shielded us for a quick kiss.
“I missed you today,” he said as I put my hat back on. Bright. Sunny. His arm slipping around my waist as if he didn’t care that someone might be looking.
“Missed you, too.” I said and meant it. His presence had so quickly become a lifeline to me, it nearabout made my head spin. At the same time, it settled me more than anything. Even so, part of me held back. I shouldn’t get used to this, but I could enjoy it while I had it.
He came with me to my bunkhouse, where I hung my hat, washed up, and changed into a clean y-shirt. Where I kissed him good and proper and got well kissed right back.
When we got to the dining hall, most folks on the ranch were already seated, eating their dinners. Dalton sniffed the air as we entered. “School pizza,” he said, rising on his toes.
“What?”
“You know, the kind of pizza the lunch ladies made at school just about every Friday. Pizza cut into rectangles to fit in the lunch tray. With carrot circles and buttered corn. Chocolate pudding for dessert.”
Now I remembered, though I didn’t want to tell him that I’d seldom been given money for school lunch.
The combination he described sounded amazing to me, and if I looked back, which I tried never to do, I was sure I could yank up some memories of standing in the lunchroom, watching other kids enjoying that exact meal.
At best, I might get a baloney sandwich from home. Or a stale glazed donut in a baggie. Or crackers and margarine.
I’d never had school pizza, but I’d eaten this pizza, made by Ruth and other cooks, a time or two before. Never knew to call it anything other than plain pizza. Now I did.
But I didn’t want to explain or think about that anymore. I wanted to stand in line behind Dalton with my fingers tugging on the back of his button-down shirt, as though I was guiding him through some pretty rough territory rather than just following him down the buffet line.
I piled my tray with my usual double helpings, and Dalton, taking half as much, was kind enough to slip two small plates that held squares of ginger cake onto his tray.
And two small bowls of vanilla ice cream.
I doubted he’d want any dessert, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to offer him some of mine.
After dinner, in the warm, still air and the slanted sunshine, we went for another walk along Snow Creek. He led the way right up to the glade of cottonwoods at the bend in the river.
I knew what he wanted. I wanted it, too. But while the grass was drying some, it was still a tad damp. I was gearing myself up for a discussion about him putting his knees in the dirt when he smiled up at me like I’d answered all his prayers.
“I came up earlier,” he said, and bent down to pull a sturdy blanket from behind a rock. He pulled the small bottle of lube out of his pocket. “And I came prepared, as you can see.”
That tumble in the tall grasses in that glade was another piece of magic I wanted to keep close and carry with me always. I stripped him to the skin and made love to him slowly. Stroking all over his body. Sucking him off until he arched his back, crying out.
That I was still dressed seemed to fascinate him—or maybe he was reaching out and tugging on my shirt, the waist of my jeans, because he wanted me bare to the skin. Like he was.
In the open air, I was shy. But at that point, there was nothing I would refuse him. He’d seen most of my scars anyway. I pulled off my t-shirt and added it to his, a pillow for his head.
Then I sat back to shuck off my boots. Tear off my jeans. My white boxers. I sat there, knees bent, arms back, propped up on my hands, wondering what might come next. Anything he wanted was fine by me.
“What happened there?” he asked, pointing.
I looked down.
The breeze made me cold, suddenly, where before it had made me warm. There, next to my once hard, now failing cock, were the trio of parallel lines. Thin. Rough red when I was warm. White when I was cold. Always shiny.
The lines were at the top of my right thigh, starting along the side and ending where my groin began. I’d come that close to getting gelded. But as luck would have it, I knew how to roll away from danger. From pain.
“Uh.”
Dalton moved close and covered the better part of the lines with his palm. Soft, like he was petting a troubled animal. “Those are burn marks,” he said. Looking stern. His eyes narrow. “Who did this to you?”
The details of everything that had happened to me weren’t what I typically shared, so I wasn’t sure how to.
Walter had known, because he’d talked about it with the social worker when he’d stormed down to Denver to rip someone a new asshole after he’d seen the scars. Since then, I’d kept them covered as best I could.
Jesse knew of them but never asked. So I was at a bit of a loss. I didn’t want Dalton doing what Walter had done—to little effect—and besides, it was years ago. So I said that.
“It was years ago.”
“I can see that,” he said, looking unhappy when only moments before, he’d been blissed out and satisfied. “There’s the marks on the back of your legs—”
I wouldn’t say no to him. But neither did I want to tell a lengthy tale about one of the fathers and his heavy-handed use of the buckle end of a belt. “Belt,” I said.
His eyes widened.
“And that one?” He pointed to my shoulder.
“Blame that on a fence post,” I said. “And my lack of skill with a green mare named Bella.” After a pause, I added, “Malcolm trained her up, and she now belongs to a lovely young woman who’s winning blue ribbons with her.”
“Oh.” Then he asked, “Green?”
“Untrained.”
He paused, eyes cast down, dark lashes on his cheeks. Like he was searching for how he felt about me and my torn-edged childhood.
I was beginning to fear he might decide I wasn’t worth all this trouble, and he’d be getting dressed now, to stalk back to his own bunkhouse and reject the idea of any additional trysts in the woods—or anywhere else.
“And these?” He looked up at me, his eyes bright, as though tears sparked the edges. “And no one-word answers, please.”
“Well.” I blew out a breath. That was one word. I was already messing this up.
I looked beyond him to the strong trunks of the cottonwood trees and the spindly, graceful river willows lining the bank of Snow Creek just beyond that.
When I’d first come to the ranch, I’d discovered them, and would often come and sit in the damp hollows between their waving branches. I loved their spicy smell.
“Jake.”
I looked at him. At the stern light in his beautiful eyes.
This was it: time to share the hard stuff. The thing the journalist had complained that I never did. He’d left. I didn’t want Dalton to leave until he had to, so I needed to talk. With him it wouldn’t be as bad as it might have been with someone else, but still, it was hard.
“There was a barbecue in the backyard,” I began. “I don’t know which house.”
I scratched my head. Not stalling, but digging for memories I’d buried long ago.
“All that BBQ chicken and shish kebabs smelled so good, I just wanted to try some. My dinner was a hot dog. I was promised two if I was good. I was old enough to know better. Too hungry to care. A bit of chicken had fallen from a skewer onto the grill. I reached for it. The father—”
Dalton’s face went white, his eyes snapping. Dark. Angry. As angry as if he’d been there and seen the whole thing.
I made myself go on. Best to get it over with, so we could get back to what we’d been doing in the glade. Enjoying each other on that blanket, the rest of the world a million miles away.
“He grabbed an empty skewer that had been left on the grill. I was wearing cotton shorts. He pulled them down and hit me with it. The metal was very hot. I rolled away. The end.”
My lower lip hurt, and I realized I was biting it. Dalton lifted his hand to soothe the bitten spot. Then he rose on his knees to gently kiss the bite away.
He scooted closer, laying his knee against my thigh, his hand stroking my skin, up and down. “That sounds horrible,” he said, not asking for any additional grisly details. “How long were you in foster care? How many mothers and fathers?”
“I was lucky—I always had one of each,” I said, knowing in the back of my mind I was stalling. “Lots of kids didn’t.”
“Jake.” His voice was very low, and his expression, his tight mouth and steady gaze, told me plainly he didn’t want me stalling.
“Since I was three.”
He blew out a breath.
“I guess. I came here after I aged out at eighteen. Walter was my mentor. Then he died.”
I didn’t want to add that I was all alone now, because I wasn’t. I’d been lucky to have known Walter at all. Jesse always had my back. Malcolm was a very good friend to me. I was friendly with the other ranch hands.