The Last Chance Ranch (6 page)

For a minute, Temper thought his boss had won the day. Vargas was listening intently, his dull eyes widening as he took in Ben's words. Temper found himself silently urging the man to take those words to heart, for his own sake as well as for the general peace. As his mama used to say, no sense carrying on about what was done and gone. But the moment passed, and fury sparked in those dark eyes once more. “You're giving me advice,
pendejo
? Fine. Now let me give you some. Be very careful,
gringo
. I am not a nice man when I am angry. People tend to get
hurt
when I am angry.” His hand strayed to the hilt of a large knife hanging from his belt.

Ben followed the movement with his eyes. When he looked back up, his face might have been carved out of granite. He never raised his voice, never acknowledged how Temper and Snow had gone all tense on either side of him, how the room fell quiet or how Bar J hands all over the saloon left off what they were doing and sidled closer to their boss. Ben leaned forward until he was inches away from the captain's sly, rotten-toothed grin. “You get as angry as you want. Come near my ranch or my men, and I'll put you down like a mangy coyote. Pull that pigsticker in here, and everyone will hear how you're nothing but a common horse thief. If you're lucky, they'll just run you out of town instead of hanging you. Now, shut your damn mouth, and go back to your bottle. Folks are trying to enjoy themselves here."

Vargas's face flushed purple, his body practically vibrating with the desire to fight. By this time though, quite a circle of men had gathered around, not all of them from the ranch. Realizing he had few friends in this crowd, Vargas spat on the floor at Ben's feet and pushed his way out the door. Temper barely contained a sigh of relief as the other hands drifted back to their own business.

"Sign another one up for the Ben Johnson appreciation society,” a rich baritone chuckled. Temper looked up—and up—at a barrel-chested man with slicked-down, black hair and an impressive handlebar mustache. “For such a mild fella, you sure know how to drive a man to violence."

"Everyone's got a talent,” Ben explained, quirking one side of his mouth in a grin.

The big man clapped him on the shoulder, but the humor left his face. “Watch that one, Ben. He's a rattlesnake if I ever saw one."

"I'll mind where I step for awhile."

The man offered his hand to Snow, who shook it with a smile. “You keepin’ him out of trouble?"

"Too big a job for one man,” Snow answered. “How's the B & L these days?"

"Busy. Started calving last week, and we're fixin’ to brand the yearlings. This your new man?” he asked, looking at Temper.

Ben nodded. “One of ‘em. This here's Mr. Temper Free. Temper, meet Sam Barstow. He owns the cattle spread east of the Bar J."

Sam shook his hand with a nod and turned back to Ben. “I wanna buy you a beer,” he declared. “You did me a favor breakin’ up that little militia. A bunch of them fellas came up to the ranch, said Miguel told ‘em I was hiring."

"You've only been complaining about being short-handed every damn time I see you. How many'd you take on?"

"Six, and sent the rest on to Gus. Told ‘em working sheep was the same as working cows, just fluffier."

Ben snorted. “How they working out?"

"Just fine so far. Hard workers all. The poor bastards are so grateful to have hot food and blankets, they don't hardly expect pay. I bought ‘em all boots, and I swear they was about to build a statue in my honor."

"Kinder treatment than they'd get from the army, that's for sure."

"I expect so. Well, let me get back to the game. Your Obie still has some money for me to win off him."

"Oh hell,” Ben muttered, turning back to his beer. “He's gonna be over here looking for an advance."

A clatter of noise broke out down at the other end of the bar as Billy went crashing to the floor under Dexter's weight. Chairs scraped back out of the way as the two men tussled, but otherwise no one paid them much mind. “Outside,” Ben directed in his customary unconcerned drawl. The men rose to their feet and, casting murderous glares at each other, stormed out the door to continue their fight.

It wasn't much longer, and Temper was yawning fit to crack his jaw. A short discussion with the bartender yielded him a key to one of the rooms upstairs, accessible by way of a stairway outside that ran up the back of the saloon. Bidding Ben and Snow a good night, he left a few coins on the bar and pushed his way outside into the chilly desert air.

The noise of the barroom was muted and seemed very far away. In the sudden hush, he paused a moment on the crooked wooden boards that made up the sidewalk and gazed up at the waning moon. He loved this time of night, that last hour or so before bedtime, when his thoughts fell still and God felt so close he could feel him with every breath. A little smile touched his lips, and he pulled in a deep lungful of air, stretching the muscles of his chest to their maximum. He exhaled, imagining the stresses and evils of the day leaving his body with the expelled air, twisting and dancing like the bits of straw in the sunlight shafts of the barn.

He was feeling relaxed and sleepy when he strolled ‘round the corner to the back of the saloon. The staircase looked a bit rickety for his taste, but at least there was a railing. He had his foot on the first step when a soft sound caught his ear and he paused, peering into the dark recesses under the stairs. The tiny bit of moonlight that filtered down through the steps was just enough to reveal the source of the disturbance.

Two figures were pressed against the wall, moving together in an unmistakable rhythm. The first man—and they were both men, Temper realized—was sprawled face first against the wall, his head turned and his features hidden from sight. The other man clung to his back, hips jerking sharply to a duet of gasps and throaty groans. Temper froze, his own member growing in his britches. He ought to look away, to go about his business and leave these fellas to their own, but Lord... it had been so long since he'd had that sort of contact, since he'd felt the touch of another person, that for a long moment, he just couldn't help himself. And then the man in the back shifted his position, and Dexter's bruised face moved into the light.

Temper started a bit, suddenly sure of the other man's identity and equally sure he'd be sporting matching bruises. Apparently, Billy and Dex liked to do more than fight with each other. Giving himself a little shake, Temper climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, though he figured nothing short of a cattle stampede would disturb those two. He let himself in to room number two, lighting the bedside lamp and glancing around.

It was small and clean, with a washstand in one corner. Temper hung his hat on a wall peg and slowly stripped out of his clothes, folding them neatly and piling them on the straight-back chair.

His manhood was still stirring as he slipped between the sheets, his earlier calm replaced by a restless feeling that came upon him from time to time during his lonely travels. Crooking one arm back behind his head, he let his hand trail down his body, over the sparse, coarse curls on his chest and the thicker nest at his privates. He trailed his fingers lightly over his swelling cock, letting his mind play back the scene beneath the stairs.

Dex, splayed against the saloon wall, fingers clutching and scrabbling at the clapboard. Temper's imagination filled in the details the darkness had kept hidden. He could see the expression on the man's face, pinched around the eyes from the discomfort of the rough treatment but slack in the jaw at the sheer pleasure of it. Moonlight caressed the curve of his rear as it rose and fell, pushing back into the cradle of Billy's hips. One of Billy's callused hands was clutching Dex's hip, hard enough to leave indentations in the flesh.

Temper stroked his solid member, his ears ringing with wet slaps of flesh on flesh, the soft moans and grunts of two men in the throes of lust. The image in his mind shifted, color bleeding in until it was a brown hand gripping Billy's rump. Temper gave a soft moan, stroking faster. How would it feel, to caress that firm, muscled backside? To sheath his aching penis in that tight heat? God, to smell the sweat and man-scent at the nape of that neck?

He leaned forward and nuzzled, breathing deeply, noting it was no longer Billy's short, red cut, but long, dark brown hair. The smell sent a little jolt straight down his body, and he twitched his hips without thought. The body beneath him moaned and bucked. Temper lost hold of his control and shoved forward, mashing the solid body against the wall as he thrust over and over, embedding his full length into his hotly willing partner again and again. Just before he reached his peak, he hooked his chin over one pale shoulder and planted a tender kiss on Larry's bearded cheek.

Lying in the narrow bed, seed cooling on his heaving chest, Temper stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and decided that church services couldn't come soon enough.

It was a long-standing tradition at the Bar J Ranch that the hands ate Sunday dinner in the main house. Only the most necessary chores were done, leaving the hands with several hours of free time. Temper, returned from town on the borrowed mount he'd found waiting for him, spent his time in a quiet little spot in the north pasture, reading his Bible and thinking, until the dinner bell sounded.

Clean and dressed in their best clothes, the men headed up the hill toward the main house. Temper hadn't had cause to venture to this part of the ranch yet and took in the details with a curious eye. In the front of the house, off to the left, was a little fenced-in graveyard, the grass neatly trimmed and cheery yellow flowers blooming by the markers. One grave was fresh, and Temper took his hat off respectfully as he passed. A large vegetable garden sprawled off to the right, and clucking and flapping from around the house hinted at a good-sized chicken run out back. Off to the right sat a smaller house, no doubt the foreman's house currently occupied by Lonnie and his family.

Pausing on the porch to knock the dust off his boots, Temper took a moment to enjoy the view. The entire spread was laid out at his feet, green pastures crisscrossed with narrow brown trails and bordered with tidy fences. It truly was a beautiful piece of land, well-planned and lovingly tended, and Temper felt a little swell of contentment.
God's country
, he thought to himself, a smile touching his lips.

Inside the house he cast a curious look around. Even from the hallway, he could see it was a man's house. The walls were mostly bare, the furniture sparse and practical. A tin mug sat on a table, a bouquet of drooping flowers splayed inside it, and that was about the only feminine touch to be seen. A child's pencil drawing of a horse, its legs impossibly long and a large, foolish smile gracing its face, was centered in a rough wood frame and hung on the otherwise bare hallway wall.

To the right of the entrance was a large and comfortable-looking den. Two armchairs stood close together in front of a fireplace, cold now but laid out for lighting later when the night grew chilly. A little table stood between the chairs, holding an amber bottle and two matching glasses.

Temper followed the other hands to the kitchen, where a long table was groaning under the weight of the biggest feast he'd seen in years. The room was too warm to be comfortable, thanks to the big cast-iron stove at the far end, but the smells were incredible. Temper's mouth was flooded with saliva as he laid eyes on the huge side of beef slow-roasting over the fire pit.

They settled at the table, Ben at one end, Snow at the other, and shared the finest meal Temper had enjoyed since he'd left his mama's house. Conversation was a bit more polite than usual, since Juanita and Rosie were there, but otherwise it was the same teasing, boisterous dinner hour he'd come to expect at the ranch. After they'd worked their way through the fine food, Juanita poured the coffee and produced several pies and a towering chocolate cake.

Fit to bust, Temper helped the other hands clear the dishes and then headed outside. The sun was still up, sitting low and fat just above the horizon. Rosie ran onto the lawn with a ball made from knotted rags, and soon Lonnie and a few others were running around playing a game that seemed to have few, if any, rules. Temper, too full and sleepy to join in, sat himself on the porch steps to watch. Behind him, Ben settled on the porch swing while Snow and Porter perched on the railing and continued the mild argument they'd started over dinner.

Time and again, Temper found his gaze going back to Larry. The young man was grinning wildly, racing around the lawn with the others, but his focus was always on Rosie. It seemed he'd go to any lengths to amuse her, chasing her making funny faces or flopping dramatically to the grass at her playful push. She threw herself on top of him, her giggles turning to shrieks as he dug his fingers into her ribs and tickled her mercilessly. “Papa!” she squealed between laughs, “Papa, save me!"

Bellowing like a buffalo, Lonnie charged over and picked Larry up like he was no bigger than a child himself, slinging him over his shoulder and lumbering across the yard. “Pick on my little girl, will you?” he shouted, to Rosie's great delight. “What should I do with him, Rosie? Drop him in the well?"

"Horse trough!” Ben called from the porch, and several others took up the call. Temper laughed out loud as Lonnie dangled his captive over the trough, his head dangerously close to the water. And then a prickly feeling on the back of his neck made him look around, and there was James Arcady, leaning against the side of the house. Temper felt a flush of anger so deep he nearly jumped up and confronted the man, but then he took a closer look.

Arcady was staring at Larry, as he usually was, but somehow he looked different. His face had lost that wolf-like sharpness that made him look like he was always scheming at something. Instead he looked—Temper struggled to find the word. Sad? Wistful? Almost regretful. Then he noticed Temper watching him, and his face closed like a window curtain. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Temper confused and wondering just what James Arcady had to regret.