The Last Chance Ranch (8 page)

The older man gave him a light smack on his upturned ass. “I like you like this,” he remarked, laying a few more slaps on Obie's skinny behind. “Think I'll do this from time to time, just to keep you from gettin’ uppity."

Obie's retort ended in a very undignified squawk as Ben put two thick fingers up inside him.

"Oh yeah. I like this a lot.” He worked his fingers in and out, twisting and then scissoring. Obie tried to push back and get that touch where he needed it, on that magic spot deep inside, but he could barely move at all. He was helpless to do anything but moan and shout while his lover played with his body. The fingers left him and two callused hands gripped his buttocks, pulling them apart. Obie waited for the thrust, tugging restlessly at his bonds and breathing like a steam engine. What he got was a long, warm breath ghosting over his opening.

His toes curled and his back tried to arch. He was still gasping when Ben's length pressed into him. “Oh. Oh,” he groaned as his lover set up a steady pounding pace. “Yeah, just like that, just like that."

Ben was a quiet, intense lover who usually left the talking to his partner. It seemed like living out his fantasy had loosened his tongue though, since rough whispers were slipping past his teeth. Obie bit his lip, wanting to silence his own sounds the better to hear his lover's. What he heard made him forget to breathe. In between “yes” and “God,” Obie distinctly heard what he'd been hoping to hear for nearly a year.

And then Ben hit that magic spot, and sparks went off behind his eyelids like the striking of a flint. Behind him, Ben stroked hard, groaning louder than Obie had ever heard him. Obie too, was way beyond words, especially when his lover's hand wrapped around his cock, both stroking and shielding it from the fence rail. His balls tightened and rose in their sac, and with a throaty cry, he convulsed. He was bent at such an odd angle that his seed splashed against his own chest, some of it even hitting his chin. Ben faltered in his pace, shoving in deep and freezing while his release overtook him.

Generally content to bask in the afterglow, Obie was in no position to appreciate it now. The stress of his position, combined with the midday heat, worse now that Ben was slumped over his back, had him wiggling before his heartbeat had come back down to normal. His grunts of discomfort caused his lover to stir. Slowly, with a groan of his own, Ben went to his knees and reached between Obie's spread feet to unknot the rawhide.

"Oh, my achin’ back,” Obie moaned as he straightened, stretching with his hands clapped to a spot just above his tailbone. His shoulders hurt, his abdomen was rubbed raw. Hell, he even had a sore patch on his johnson from friction with the fence rail. He glanced at Ben, expecting a bit of sympathy, but his lover was staring at him with wide eyes, his nostrils flaring. Moving like he was in a dream, the older man reached up and swiped a thumb over Obie's chin, then pushed the thumb gently into Obie's mouth. Obie sucked the digit languorously, tasting his own seed, and beneath that, the sweat and musk of his lover. A lover that looked ready to go again, sooner rather than later. Obie moved into his embrace, passing the flavor on through a hungry kiss.

"Next time,” he murmured into Ben's mouth, “we're doin’
my
fantasy."

"And what's that?"

"I don't want to spoil the surprise,” Obie answered, grinning wickedly. “But it does involve a saddle.” Against his hip, Ben's exhausted organ gave an interested, futile twitch. Sooner rather than later, indeed.

It was late in the evening before they heard the wagons clatter up the trail. Peering out the window, Obie could just make out two points of light, bobbing wildly as the wagon's lanterns swung on their hooks. The first light stopped at the barn. The second paused for a moment, then continued up the path toward the house. Obie and Ben stepped out onto the porch, bearing their own lantern, and watched as Lonnie brought the wagon to a halt. Beside him, Juanita was slumped over asleep, with Rosie dead to the world in her lap.

The big man all but fell out of the wagon, his usual easy grace a casualty of his fatigue. “Hey, boss, Obie,” he called quietly. He gave a great yawn and leaned his forearms heavily on the porch railing, letting his chin rest on top. “Mr. Barstow sends his thanks. He sent a case of whiskey too. It's in there somewhere.” He gave a lazy nod toward the wagon and its load of cooking gear. “He says to tell you he'll replace the lumber soon as he can. They had a right mess over there, boss, but we got ‘em through the worst of it. Said they could handle the rest."

Lonnie's eyes were drifting closed, and his voice was petering out to a murmur. Ben clapped him on the arm, making him start. “Go on, get your family to bed,” Ben told him. “Don't worry about that wagon. Me and Obie'll unload it in the morning. All you boys have a lie-in tomorrow. You've earned it."

"Can't,” came the drowsy answer. “Gotta feed the horses."

"It won't hurt ‘em to eat a few hours later. God knows it's been a long day for everybody. Go on now, get to bed."

Lonnie gave in with a nod and went back to the wagon, shaking his wife awake. Juanita couldn't seem to get her eyes open more than halfway and barely noticed when Lonnie took her daughter from her arms. Finally, they were all up and moving toward the foreman's house. Ben and Obie brought the wagon around back to the kitchen door, set the brake, and unhitched the horse. “You too, Obediah. Go on to bed. I'll see to this old gal and come join you.” He took the mare by her bridle and snagged the lantern with his other hand. He'd only gone a few steps when he stopped. “Huh.” Reaching into the wagon, he pulled a dark bottle out of a crate.

"Good stuff?” Obie asked, rubbing his gritty eyes with the back of his fist.

"Kentucky sippin’ whiskey. Finest kind."

"Sam's good people.” Obie yawned so hard his jaw cracked.

"Bed, now, before you swallow your own head,” Ben ordered, putting the whiskey back and getting the horse moving once more.

"I'll wait for you."

"Like hell. You'll be asleep soon as your head hits the pillow."

"Naw, I'll wait for you."

The older man smiled knowingly. “All right, then."

Obie watched him for a few minutes as his lantern moved back down the hill to the barn, then turned and went inside. He sat down on the bed to unbutton his shirt, and that was the last thing he knew until morning.

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Obie wasn't surprised to wake up in an empty bed. Ben was an early riser by nature and didn't seem capable of sleeping in, even when he'd gotten little sleep the night before. Obie got out of bed and stretched, rubbing his lower back with a wince. “Gettin’ old,” he muttered to himself as he slowly got dressed.

His first stop was the kitchen and the pot of hot coffee waiting for him on top of the cast-iron stove. He drank half of the first cup before he even put the pot down, scalding his tongue but not caring. Ben must have been up for some time, he realized as he looked around. Everything from the wagon had already been put away.

Obie wasn't the only one getting off to a slow start. The sun was well up and the feed wagon was just now making its way up to the north pasture. Exhausted from the long hours and physical labor of the day before, the hands looked slow and clumsy as they went about their tasks. Besides the daily chores, there were still a number of large downed trees and branches to clear, so it was no surprise that no one looked enthusiastic about the day ahead. Obie wandered into the barn and found Ben saddling the Bastard.

"'Bout time you got out of bed,” Ben grumbled, tightening the cinch. The Bastard swung his broad head in Obie's direction with a snort, and the young man took a hasty step backward. “Behave, you,” Ben admonished with a tug at the bridle. “I'm headin’ over to the mill. I swear, I am determined to pry some lumber outta that old Dutchman if it kills me. You wanna come with?"

"Hell no. Last time I went, that old man called me a catamite. I still don't know what that means."

"Ask Father Percy next time you're in town. How ‘bout you, Temper, feel like takin’ a ride?"

"Me? Nawsir. I don't know what a catamite is neither, but I bet it ain't worse than a nigger."

"Damnit, you got a point. Old Arne's likely to shoot you on sight. God save us from hardheaded sons of bitches.” He swung up into the saddle, the Bastard doing a little dance in place before Ben settled him down. “Tell Snow to follow me with the wagon in a half hour or so. If I ain't talked de Groot around by then, I guess I never will.” He gave the stallion a nudge, and the great black horse lunged out of the barn.

Half an hour later, Snow left with the wagon, trundling down the path to the road.

Half an hour after that, he came trundling back up.

Obie rose from where he'd been hunched over, sawing through a downed branch. Squinting into the sun, he watched the wagon approach with a funny feeling in his gut. Snow wasn't driving any faster, but the lines of his body were taut and tense. And why wasn't Ben with him? Before his brain could come up with a good reason not to, Obie was running to meet the wagon. Sure enough, when he looked over the side, Ben was reclining back on a pile of rope, scowling something fierce. A kerchief was tied around his right thigh, its dark blue fabric stained purple. Obie launched himself over the side, a jumble of questions spilling out of his mouth.

"What the hell happened? Who did this? Where's the Bastard?"

"Settle down, Obediah.” Ben let his hand graze against Obie's for the briefest of seconds. “I'll live."

By now, a handful of others had gathered around the wagon and followed it as it bypassed the barn and went directly to the main house. Snow threw the brake and climbed into the back, issuing orders. “Lonnie, run ahead and tell Juanita we need hot water and bandages. Dex, you find Porter and get him here now."

"Doctor,” Obie chattered nervously. “Somebody needs to get a doctor.” Even though Ben was warm and alive right there next to him, Obie had taken a chill deep inside he couldn't seem to shake. He and Snow helped their boss off the wagon and supported him between them as Ben hopped on his good leg, up the porch steps and into the house. Juanita was ready for them, having laid out clean bandages and spread the bed with burlap sacks to catch the blood. “You need a doctor,” Obie said again as they settled him on the bed.

"No I don't. Porter's a better hand at takin’ out a bullet than that young sawbones in town."

"He shot you,” Obie spat, hovering over his lover. “Son of a bitch, I knew he didn't like you, but damn!"

"Arne de Groot didn't shoot me,” Ben refuted. He was utterly calm, laying there with a damn bullet in his leg and acting like they were having a Sunday picnic. It was making Obie a little crazy. “I only got about halfway to the mill—you know that spot before the turnoff to Sam's, where the thickets are heavy? I was passin’ there, and somebody took a shot at me from the brush. Probably would have killed me, too, if the Bastard hadn't bucked. Threw me off and left me there, the ill-mannered beast."

"I found him limpin’ down the road, swearin’ a blue streak and complainin’ about blood in his boot,” Snow commented as he untied the stained kerchief and gingerly pulled it away from the wound.

Ben hissed a little but otherwise didn't react as Snow tugged the boot off his foot and slit up the pant leg with his knife. “Damnit, I like these pants."

"I'll sew your pants,” Juanita said as she bustled into the room with a basin of steaming water. “Such a baby."

"Where you figure that horse is now?” Snow asked casually as he soaked a cloth in the water and dabbed at the wound.

"No idea. I reckon he'll come back on his own, when he's damn good and ready and not before.” Ben chuckled, and suddenly Obie was angry as hell.

"What the hell are you laughing at? You've got a damn bullet in your leg. Somebody tried to kill you. Wanna tell me what's so damn funny here?” Just as he was working up to a serious hissy fit, he glanced down at Ben's wound. With all the blood cleaned away, it was a perfectly round hole, right there in that strong thigh that Obie had touched, had kissed, so many times. He looked at his lover's leg and only saw a piece of meat with a chunk missing out of it, still oozing blood, and his stomach flipped over.

"Oh my God,” he moaned, and suddenly he could not stay in the room one minute more. He spun on his heel and bolted, nearly plowing over Porter, who was on his way in. He all but fell down the porch steps and kept right on running, not heading anywhere in particular but needing like hell to get away from the house.

Could've died, could've died
. The words bubbled out of the sick, churning mess in his brain, the one that tried to picture his life without Ben Johnson and came up with
nothing
, absolutely nothing. Obie lurched to a stop, bent over, and threw up between the toes of his boots. He retched for a moment, elbows on his knees, eyes watering. Finally his stomach quieted and he spat until the foul taste had mostly left his mouth. He straightened and wiped at his streaming eyes, feeling sick and shaky.
Get hold of yourself
, he thought, taking a few deep breaths.
He's alive. He's all right. And he probably thinks you're a lunatic.

Running his hand through his hair, he resettled his hat and strode determinedly back toward the house.
No more running
, he told himself.
Time to stand.

Ben was still lying on the bed, propped up on a heap of pillows. His thigh was snugly wrapped in a clean, white bandage. Porter stood at the washstand, rinsing his bloody hands, looking more like an undertaker than a doctor in his usual black clothes.

Ben looked up when Obie came in, his face calm but his eyes showing concern. Obie gave him a sheepish smile. “How you doin'?"

"I'll live. How you doin'?"

"I'm okay.” Obie tossed his hat on the bureau and settled next to his lover on the bed. “Sorry ‘bout that. Just got to me for a minute there."

Porter snorted, drying his hands on a scrap of burlap. “First gunshot wound you've ever seen?"