The Last Chance Ranch (2 page)

"Boss say anything about me?” He was still smiling, but his eyes were hard and searching.

"Just asked how long I knew you."

"Yeah? What'd you tell him?"

"Truth.” Temper held the man's gaze until his eyes softened, and he backed away.

"Well, that's all right, then,” he said. His grin widened, and he gave Temper a friendly slap on his shoulder. “Come on, buddy, let's get to work!"

Temper followed him out, but not too close.
Fella's just not right.

The white-haired foreman, Snow, was waiting outside along with a huge mountain of a man. “This here's Lonnie. He'll show you around and get you started.” Snow nodded to them and went into the bunkhouse, closing the door behind him. The big man, Lonnie, watched him with sad eyes, then gave himself a visible shake and offered his hand to both new men in turn.

"Hey, fellas, welcome aboard. I'm gonna give you a quick tour, then put ya to work. We're a little behind today on account of Walter's funeral. Well, you've seen the bunkhouse, and this here's the barn.” Temper thought that was fairly obvious. The biggest building on a horse ranch was bound to be the barn, wasn't it? Especially given how close it was to the bunkhouse. And especially as how it was a goldarned
barn
. He followed along inside and kept his thoughts behind his teeth. It seemed wise not to sass a man who was six and half feet tall and as broad in the chest as a rain barrel.

As expected, the barn contained rows of clean stalls, about half of which were empty. Near the front were a tack room and a work area with shelves of bottles and jars. “This here is where Ben works his magic when the horses fetch up sick. We do hooves here sometimes too.” Lonnie gestured to the stalls. “You fellas will probably be on muckin’ duty for awhile. Snow tends to grind the new guys a bit before he lets ‘em loose."

Temper was okay with that. Hard work never killed nobody, and so far as he was concerned, his job was to do whatever the foreman told him to do. Arcady, however, looked like he'd swallowed a bug. “No offense to my pal, here, Lonnie, but I ain't exactly new at workin’ horseflesh."

Lonnie had a broad, boyish face that naturally shone out friendship and good cheer, but Temper saw his smile tighten just a bit. “You're new
here
, friend. Snow won't let you near the horses until he sees what you're made of. Don't worry,” he assured, leading them back out of the barn, “if you're as good as you think you are, it won't take long.” Arcady still didn't look happy but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

Back out in the sun, Lonnie shaded his eyes and pointed to various fenced-in areas. “Holding pen. That's where we put the horses we're gonna work with for the day, once we drive ‘em down. We're not working any today so far, since the day's all thrown off. North pasture, south pasture, and that one there is the big pasture. I know, it ought to be called the east pasture, but I didn't name it, and it's always been that way. Oh, see that big, black stallion in the south pasture? Keep your distance from that bastard. The only one who rides him is the boss. He'll kick or bite anybody else that goes near him."

Temper eyed the huge horse warily and mentally agreed to stay clear. He figured Arcady was probably thinkin’ he'd just jump right on and go for a trot.

"Up there's the main house. Boss lives there. Obie stays there too, most nights. We all go up for Sunday dinner and special occasions."

"What's that small house behind it?” Arcady asked.

"Normally, it's the foreman's place,” Lonnie explained. “Only, Snow gave it up and moved into the bunkhouse last summer."

"So who lives there now?"

The big man looked sheepish. “Well, I do. Since me and Juanita got married. It was sort of a weddin’ present. We were meant to build Snow a new place, but we're havin’ trouble getting the lumber. Anyways, you'll meet Juanita soon, when she brings supper on down from the house. She's a damn fine cook, best fried chicken in the state."

By the time the bell summoned them to dinner, Temper felt he'd gotten a pretty good idea of the lay of the land. It was a nice ranch, though smaller than some he'd worked on, and so far as he could tell, the animals were all top quality. The buildings and fences were in good shape, though he'd seen a few less-than-pretty repairs. Temper chalked them up to Lonnie's comment about not being able to source the wood and wondered again why that was, what with a mill so close by.

He and Arcady had met a few of the hands, but the rest were only now coming in from the far pastures and lining up at the pump to wash up before supper. Arcady headed for the bunkhouse, set on changing into a clean shirt for some damn fool reason, while Temper took a place at the trundle table set up outside. Lonnie settled in next to him, making the wooden bench groan, and introduced him to each hand as he arrived. “This here's Porter; he's a grumpy bastard that don't talk much.” Temper nodded a greeting to the tall, lean man with the pock-marked face, who returned the gesture. He must have been used to Lonnie's sass and didn't pay him any mind.

A young man on the lean side of thirty, his shirt sleeves damp and rolled up to his elbows, sat down across the table. “And that's Larry,” Lonnie said, “the only one ‘round here that talks less than Porter.” The man in question pushed his long brown hair out of his face, revealing a neat beard and moustache. He offered a shy smile. Temper couldn't help but smile back.

He met them all: Miguel, the young Mexican with the friendly grin and the missing front tooth, the surly Go to Hell Mel, whose catch phrase made an appearance within ten seconds of his arrival at the table, Billy and Dave, Everett and Dexter. All of them had a friendly greeting for the new man and immediately set to horseplay. Temper was already getting a good feeling about this bunch.

And then Arcady sauntered out of the bunkhouse, and Lonnie started his introductions all over again. Temper wasn't paying him any mind, though. His focus was on the young man sitting across from him, the one called Larry. All the blood had drained from his face, leaving him whiter than tallow. He looked like he might bolt or puke or both, and his wide brown eyes were fixed on James Arcady.

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Lonnie, who Temper'd already pegged as kind but a bit clueless, carried on naming and insulting the men and never noticed Larry's distress. Arcady though, had. He grinned and nodded to each man as he was introduced, but his smile was fixed, and his hard, glittering eyes kept returning to Larry. It wasn't until the boss, in the company of his young man, came to the table that Arcady shifted his focus, once again looking Johnson over like a starving coyote.
Playing with fire,
Temper thought as Obie's brow drew down.
Boy's a spitfire, and no mistake.

"Joinin’ us for dinner, boss?” Lonnie called.

Johnson didn't answer, just held up a bottle. The hands quit their joking and reached for their mugs, solemnly holding them up. Johnson walked around the table, pouring a small measure for each. Once he'd gone full circle, he looked out over the men and took a minute to compose his thoughts. “Walter was here with us for longer than just about anybody, ‘cept Snow. We almost didn't hire him, on account of he was a drunk. Robert and me fought somethin’ fierce over it. Lucky for me, he won.” Johnson grinned and the men chuckled. Temper glanced around, fairly certain that no one he'd been introduced to was named Robert, and decided he'd ask later. “That first day, old Walter looked me in the eye and swore he'd never touch a drop as long as I kept him on. Well, he was good as his word, and he turned out to be a hell of a good hand.” He raised his mug, and the others followed suit. “To Walter. We'll miss you, old man."

"Walter,” the men murmured. Temper toasted with the rest but put his mug down untouched.

Lonnie nudged him, a tiny twitch of his elbow that nearly knocked Temper off the bench. “What's wrong? You ain't gotta worry, boss buys good whiskey."

"I don't drink,” Temper said, rubbing his side.

Lonnie blinked at him. “You don't drink?"

"Nope."

"Not even beer?"

"Nope."

"You like Walter, then? Up and quit?"

"Nope, never tried."

Half the table was looking at him now, like he was some strange new creature deserving of study. Temper was used to it.

They were distracted by the arrival of the chuck wagon, rattling its way down the rutted path from the main house. A short, plump Mexican woman climbed down from the seat, a little girl of about five clambering after her. Lonnie's face went soft and goofy, and Temper knew he was gazing at the exalted Juanita. To Temper's eyes, she was a hard, grim-looking woman, but her husband clearly thought the sun shone in her smile and roses bloomed in her cheeks. While her mother started unloading covered dishes from the back of the wagon, the little girl ran around the table and stood on tiptoe to give Lonnie a kiss on the cheek. “Papa, guess what? We made cherry pie for dessert, and I got to pick the cherries."

"Did you? I can't wait to have some."

"Dinner first,” she ordered primly, skipping back to help her mother.

Lonnie turned to Temper, his grin so wide his face could barely contain it. “That's my little girl, Rosie. Ain't she a peach?"

"She's a cutie,” Temper answered truthfully. He glanced over at Larry, who seemed to have recovered a bit. He'd regained his color and was putting food on his plate, but Temper didn't miss the way he kept shooting nervous looks down the table at Arcady.

For his part, Arcady seemed to have lost interest. He was busy chatting with the other hands like they were all old buddies. Temper found he was a tiny bit jealous at the way the man seemed to just fit in wherever he went, where Temper was slow to make friends. It took more than a good meal for him to open himself up to any man, as he was more inclined to keep to himself. Made for a lonely existence sometimes, but as his mama used to say, those were his stripes and not like he could change them.

Regardless of Juanita's looks, Temper had to agree she was one heck of a cook. Stuffed full of fried chicken, buttered ears of corn, turnip greens, and fresh bread, he tried to pass up dessert, but Rosie gave him such a pleading look, he broke down and had a little sliver of very good pie. When the last morsel had been consumed, all the hands helped pile the tins and plates back onto the wagon, and Juanita and the girl drove away. The men dispersed, some to the barn to close up for the night, others to smoke in a little area far from the barn and its flammable supply of hay. Uncomfortably full from dinner, Temper took himself off for a stroll. The sun was just sinking below the horizon, staining the sky orange and casting the ranch in deep shadows.

He wandered wherever his feet took him, soothed by the sounds of the ranch bedding down for the night. Horses whickered softly, calling to each other in the dusk. A coyote howled, but it was far, far off, its solitary voice carrying miles through the still evening. Even the men were speaking in low voices, Temper noted as his walk took him back around to the barn. It was a specific voice, low and urgent, that made him frown and detour ‘round back. In the last of the light, he could just make out Arcady, leaning in close to another man he had backed up against the barn. Temper couldn't make out the words, but the low, tense tone of them made his hackles rise.

Mind your business, Temper Free. Don't you go pokin’ your nose in other folks’ business. No good ever comes of meddling.
It wasn't often he ignored his mama's advice, but he had a bad feeling that wasn't going to go away until he checked things out. Still, he was no skulker. He walked up to the two men, bold as brass, scuffing his boots in the dirt. “Evening, gentlemen."

Once again, he saw that flash of something just not right in Arcady's face, before the smile fell into place. It was like the show he'd seen once in Kansas City, Temper thought absently, when the heavy, red curtain dropped across the stage. Pretty but bland, hiding all the really interesting stuff. He had a feeling whatever James Arcady was hiding, it wasn't dancing girls.

"Well, evenin’ there, Mr. Free.” Arcady gave him a friendly nod, leaning one shoulder casually against the wall. “Out for a stroll this fine evening?"

Temper nodded. He wasn't surprised to find that the second man was Larry, looking wild-eyed like a hunted rabbit. “Biggest meal I've had in some time. Do y'all eat that way every night?” He directed his question to Larry, who ran a hand through his hair and nodded without ever taking his eyes off Arcady. Temper was beginning to wonder if the man spoke at all.

"Gettin’ late,” Arcady observed. “You ‘bout ready to turn in?” His eyes were fixed on Temper, but he himself made no move to retire. And he was casually blocking Larry's retreat with his body. Temper knew right then and there he wasn't about to leave these two men alone if he could help it. Before he could figure it, though, another voice sounded in the growing dark.

"I suggest you all turn in,” the foreman called. He stood with arms crossed, at the corner of the barn, but the shadows hid his face. “We start work early around here."

Larry wasted no time in ducking away and walking swiftly past the foreman. Arcady was a little slower to comply, ambling past Temper with his damn phony smile. “Good advice, boss. Time to hit the hay."

Temper watched him go without a word. Though he couldn't see for sure, he could feel Snow watching him. For a minute, he considered talking to the foreman about Arcady but decided against it. What could he really say? That the man gave him a bad feeling? He knew next to nothing about Arcady, and he truly hadn't seen him do a thing out of line.

No, Temper thought as he nodded to Snow and took himself to bed. Best to heed Johnson's words and mind his own work, leave the other hands to the foreman. But Temper would continue to keep his eyes and ears open, all the same.

Obie gripped his lover's hips and thrust.
Probably should have used more oil

He and Ben certainly went at it often enough to not need a whole lot of preparation, but with the sort of hard fucking he was giving his lover tonight, a little bit of lubricant was only polite.