The Last Chance Ranch (3 page)

Only thing was, he
wanted
it to hurt, at least a little, and didn't that just make him six kinds of bastard? He wanted Ben to feel him every time he moved, every time he sat a horse, for days after this. God, the thought made his cock jump like a jackrabbit. He leaned across his lover's broad back, hooked his hands under his shoulders for leverage and rammed himself in, over and over. Ben was making low grunts every time he shoved in, and part of Obie's mind recognized they were more pain than passion, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"Mine,” he snarled and sank his teeth into Ben's sweat-streaked shoulder. That earned him a hiss from his lover and a reflexive tightening of the muscles that held him so snugly. Obie groaned and mashed his forehead into the thick muscle of Ben's back, rutting almost helplessly. He held on like Ben was a wild horse that might buck him off at any time, and suddenly he just couldn't resist giving him the spurs. When he brought the flat of his hand down on Ben's firm ass, the older man actually yelped. Obie chuckled at the indignant noise—Lord, but he was gonna pay for that later.

He felt his finish approaching and pulled out, holding Ben down with one hand and working his cock with the other. With a shudder and a drawn-out groan, he spilled on that broad back, jet after jet, until he was spent. Still not satisfied, Obie ran his hands through the mess, rubbing his seed deep into his lover's skin. Everyone who came near Ben Johnson tomorrow was going to smell Obie on him, see his marks and know who he belonged to. And that included goddamned James Arcady.

"Feel better?” Ben asked as Obie crawled up to lay beside him.

"I do, actually."

Ben turned gingerly over onto his back, revealing a nicely erect cock. Obie reached for it only to have his hand turned aside. “No thanks,” Ben said firmly. “You're a mite violent tonight. Don't think I want you pulling on my johnson. Besides,” he added, pulling himself up. “I ain't quite ready yet.” And just that quick, Ben snatched Obie's arm and pulled him face down across his lap. “Now. I seem to recall that somebody got a bit big for his britches there a coupla minutes ago.” He brought his hand down hard on Obie's backside, ignoring the younger man's laughing and squirming. Ben landed a few more smacks for good measure.

Obie could feel his partner's hardness, felt it throb with each slap he delivered. “You're enjoying this a bit too much, you old pervert. Ow! That stung, damn you.” Finally Ben let him up, laughing and looking way too smug for Obie's tastes. And speaking of taste....

Obie swallowed his lover right down to the root and was rewarded with a pleased groan. Ben was close, so it was only a few minute's work to make him pop. Licking his lips, Obie climbed up until he was straddling the other man's lap. Drawing patterns on his sweating, heaving chest, Obie ventured, “That Arcady's gonna be trouble."

"Oh Lord.” Ben rolled his eyes and reached for a tin mug of water on the nightstand. “Just ‘cause you're jealous—"

"I ain't jealous!"

"That why you're spraying all over this room like a tomcat?"

Obie pouted a bit but had to give in. “Maybe I am, then. Still...."

"Still what? You being jealous don't make him a bad hand or a bad man."

"Yeah? Well, just ‘cause I'm jealous don't mean I'm wrong, neither."

Ben laughed outright this time, nearly jostling Obie from his perch. “Obediah. The man's been here less than one full day, and you're fixin’ to pack him off already."

"I don't like him,” Obie said, all teasing gone. “You mark my words, Ben, that man is trouble. If you trust me at all, you'll tell him to move on in the morning."

Ben regarded him with that thoughtful frown, and Obie dared hope the man would take him seriously. “I trust you,” Ben finally said. “I guess you don't trust me, though."

"What? You know I do."

"I've been runnin’ this ranch for more than ten years now. If Arcady ends up bein’ a problem, you need to trust that I'll take care of it.” Seeing that Obie was genuinely worried and not just throwing a fit, Ben softened his voice and ran the backs of his fingers over Obie's jaw. “Snow's gonna keep a close eye on both them new fellas, you know that. He'll keep ‘em on a short leash and let us know if he sees any problems. Trust me,” he urged. “Trust Snow. And keep your eyes open. If Arcady actually does something queer, you let me know. All right?"

Obie chewed his lip, still not entirely happy. “And then I get to say ‘I told you so'?"

"Many times as you want. Course, you say it too much, I might take it into my head to tan your backside again."

"Careful, old man. Don't go makin’ promises you ain't up to keepin'."

"I'll show you who's an old man,” Ben grumbled.

They quit talking for awhile.

In the morning, the foreman set the two new hands to mucking out stalls while the others went about their chores. Temper stripped off his shirt and took up the pitchfork without comment. His time belonged to Ben Johnson now, and however the boss wanted to spend it, that was okay with Temper. Work was work, and he got paid no matter what he spent his day doing. Arcady didn't seem quite so content, grumbling about having to do manual labor when he was so obviously a highly skilled horse master. He never complained when the foreman was close enough to hear, but Temper didn't seem to count. People tended to forget he was around sometimes.

They were halfway done and taking a water break when Arcady deigned to speak to him. “I guess you're wonderin’ what it was you saw behind the barn last night."

Temper had found over the years that he learned more by acting like he didn't care than most folks did by asking. “Not my concern if you fellas have history."

"History?” Arcady mused. “Yeah, guess you could say that. I saved his life, back when he was just a sprout."

"That so."

"Oh, terrible thing. His folks were settlers, had a little farmstead up around Ogallala. Sioux butchered the whole family, parents and a little girl. I was riding with lawmen back in those days, not hardly full grown myself.” Arcady shook his head and blew out a long breath. “They butchered those people and burned the house down around them. Long as I live, I'll never forget that God-awful smell.” He gave himself a little shake, and Temper could tell the memory still genuinely bothered him. “Anyway, we found the boy hidin’ out in the corn, bloodied up and scared stiff. Couldn't have been but ten or twelve. He had no people left, nowhere to go, so I let him tag around with me. Two years we rode together, takin’ work where we found it. One night, he just up and left. Always wondered what happened to him."

"He talk any back then?"

"Not one word, not in all the time I knew him. Damn, but it's good to see he's doin’ all right by himself. Seems happy enough, if a mite nervous.” Arcady shook his head, his gaze far away. “What were the chances of us runnin’ into each other again, this far from Nebraska? It's a damn miracle, is what it is."

Temper had to admit the odds were pretty small, but he stopped short of calling it a miracle. He had the feeling he wasn't getting the whole story. “He didn't seem too happy to see you."

"Guess I remind him of things he'd just as soon forget."

That made sense. Everything about Arcady made sense, once he explained it. But that didn't stop Temper from getting a funny feeling about the man, like someone was walking over his grave. “Maybe,” he said slowly, still reluctant to involve himself, “maybe it would be a kindness if you gave the man his space. On account of his being so nervous."

There it was again—for just a second, that dark look flashed across Arcady's face before the smile took over. “Reckon you're right. Poor fella's been through enough without me draggin’ it all back up for him. I was just surprised to see him, is all. Might have come on a bit strong."

"Understandable,” Temper agreed. “Now you know, you can do right by him."

The smile froze on Arcady's face, and the hateful look appeared again, this time for more than a flash. Temper met it without blinking, knowing he was sending a message.
I'll be watching you, Arcady. Mind yourself.

It seemed Mama was right. He just couldn't help himself from meddling.

The work went fast once Arcady shut the hell up and put his back into it. Temper put the pitchforks away and spent a few minutes straightening up the tool room. When he came out, Arcady was reclined on a bale of hay rolling himself a cigarette. “Best not smoke in here,” Temper advised.

Arcady snorted and licked the paper, rolling it between his fingers to firm it up. “You get promoted to foreman since yesterday? ‘Cause I sure don't recall signin’ up to take orders from you."

Temper glanced around. The air was full of straw bits twisting in the sunbeams, and he'd heard tell of whole barns going up from that. “Don't be a damn fool. You wanna burn down the barn on your first day of work?"

Arcady passed the cigarette from hand to hand, looking speculatively at Temper. “Think you could stop me?” Temper's surprise must have shown on his face, because the other man sat forward with an eager look. “Really. You think you could take me? One on one, man to man, fair fight?"

"You always talk such foolishness?” Despite himself, Temper realized he was sizing the man up. Arcady had several inches on him and was broad and solidly muscled, where Temper was lean and sinewy. He might be able to take Arcady, he decided, but he really hoped he wouldn't ever have to try.

"You're thinkin’ about it, ain't ya?” Arcady rose and walked slowly toward him, a sly grin on his face. “Right now, you're thinkin', wonderin’ if you're up to it.” He looked almost gleeful, like he was anticipating the fight. Temper felt his muscles tense, his heart beat a little faster in response.

[Back to Table of Contents]

"You fellas run out of work already?” Snow stood in the doorway, his pale blue eyes taking in every detail from the clean stalls to the posture of his two newest hands. “I know you weren't gonna light up that smoke in here."

"Naw,” Arcady said, tucking the cigarette in his shirt pocket. “It's for later."

"Good thinkin'.” Snow moved to one side of the door and jerked his head. “I just bet I can find something for you two to do. Seein’ as how you got time to stand around and all.” Temper, annoyed that he'd let Arcady show him in a bad light in front of his new foreman, followed him outside, the other man trailing behind. Snow crossed his arms and gave them both a hard stare.

"There are rules at the Bar J, gentlemen. No smoking in the barn or anywhere near the hay stores. No drinking on the job. Don't do anything to put the horses at risk. And no fightin'. Now, I'm not sayin’ everybody gets along all the time. Hell, Billy and Dex beat the hell out of each other every Saturday night behind the saloon. But don't do it here. If I find out—and I always find out—you'll be gone. Understand?"

"Yassir."

"Got it, boss."

"Good. Mr. Arcady, saddle up and meet the feed wagon up top of the big pasture. You know which one that is? Good. Mr. Free, you're with me."

Glad to see the back of Arcady, at least for awhile, Temper followed the foreman around the side of the barn. Snow pulled back a corner of an oilskin tarp, revealing a pitifully small stack of planks. “That is all the lumber we got, Mr. Free, and all we're likely to get for some time to come."

"Why is that, if'n you don't mind me askin'? I seen that big mill when I rode into town."

Snow spat in the dirt. “That mill is owned by a Dutchman with a head like a rock, is why. Arne de Groot is his name. Last year, some of those roughnecks he hired ganged up on Ben in town and beat the hell out of him. The whole group ended up in jail."

"And he blames Ben for that?"

Snow shrugged. “He never liked Ben, not since he's came to town. Used to be he'd take Ben's money even if he wouldn't shake his hand. After the fight, well, he won't sell to us no more. And so, Mr. Free, we are hoarding lumber and making do without wherever possible. Today, you and I are gonna improvise a fence repair."

"Good at that, boss. We used to be sharecroppers when I was a youngun. We learned real quick to make the best of what we had."

"That's what I want to hear. Let's go and have us a look at that corral."

If he spent the rest of his life at the Bar J Ranch, Obie would never get over the sight of Ben bending a wild horse to his will, and he knew the other hands were just as fascinated. He wondered if any of the others were feeling like their britches were too tight.

The yearling finally quit cow-kicking and settled into a restless trot around the corral, Ben talking to it in low, reassuring tones. Just as everyone started to relax, the top board of the fence snapped with a crack like rifle fire. Obie and Lonnie, who'd been sitting on it, went spilling to the ground in a tangle. Startled by the noise, the yearling bucked wildly. Ben, who wasn't often caught by surprise, was totally unprepared and went flying, landing on the hard-packed dirt with a thud and a whoosh of expelled breath.

Larry vaulted over the men and the busted fence and caught up the trailing reins, bringing the horse under control before it had a chance to trample Ben. The boss himself was a mite slow to get up, dusting off his britches and rubbing at a sore hip. “Goddamnit,” he snarled, limping over to inspect the busted fence. The wood had clearly given way under plain old rot and wear, and Obie wasn't sure they had a board to replace it. He knew it was worry driving Ben's unusually angry response—worry and frustration and just a little bit of embarrassment. It had been a while since a horse had put him on his backside, and that had to sting in more ways than one. “Lonnie,” Ben barked, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed until it seemed he could hardly see a thing, “saddle the Bastard. I'm gonna go see Arne de Groot and knock some sense into that thick, Dutch head of his if I have to use a hammer. Unsaddle that yearling, and put him back in the holding corral,” he told Larry as he retrieved his tan hat, beat it back into shape, and jammed it on his head.

The men scattered to do his bidding, unwilling to have that temper turned on them. Before Obie had a chance to ask if he was all right, Porter and Miguel rode up in a cloud of dust. “Folks coming, boss,” Miguel called in his familiar lisp. “One on horse, bunch more by foot."