by Nya Rawlyns
No reason at all. Other than the twenty hundred times Sally had tried to hook him up with her. Her, who is her?
Deb. Dora. Doreen?
Dolly. Shit, it’s Dolly.
Plastering a smile on his face, he sidled into the makeshift office and nodded in greeting to the doe-eyed young woman tapping on a keyboard. As usual, she blushed crimson and stuttered, “H-hi, Mr. Brookes. Nice day today.”
It could be hailing a blue streak and the girl would say the same thing... hi, nice day, always mister, not Michael, keeping him at arm’s length despite the fact her mom was fondling an imaginary engagement ring just in case.
From the counter Sally announced, shrill enough to rattle the windows, “Dolly’s doing barrels, ya know.”
Michael loudly agreed, “Yes, I know.”
“Don’t start ’til nine-thirty. Last event.”
“Thanks, got it.” He clicked his pen and raised his eyebrows at Dolly who was tittering as she cupped her hand across her mouth. She had a chipped tooth from a face plant into a barrel. The mother hadn’t seen fit to send the kid to the dentist to get it fixed, treating it like normal wear and tear. Dolly, self-conscious and shy at the best of times, obviously didn’t see it that way.
Not that he had a right to judge. He had some gouges and scarring to show for the few times he’d been on the wrong side of a bull’s foul humor back in college. The rodeo boys hadn’t gotten to him fast enough as Mr. Django did a foxtrot on his hard skull. After waking up to dancing girls circling his head instead of the male strippers he fancied, he switched to team roping and the opportunity to blow out his knees and shoulder instead.
Seemed a fair trade at the time.
Dolly mouthed, “Three seventy-five,” as Michael scrawled his signature on the check. Sally must really want him to take the girl off her hands if she was still letting him get away with paying winter rates during the high season. He was a hundred and ten percent certain it wasn’t his sparkling personality and devastating good looks that tipped the scales.
He was flirting with his thirty-second birthday at the end of the month, pretty much over-the-hill by most standards, but he had a steady job, drove a late model dually and kept his patch of real estate clean and tidy. And he said yes ma’am, no ma’am, tipped his hat and opened doors for the blue-haired ladies at the grocery store, and kept his drinking and other habits out of public view.
Michael felt moved to say something nice, even though he realized how the mother’s big ears on the other side of the door would take it. The girl deserved better than being a slab of meat hung out for anything wearing a jockstrap to consider. No beauty by any stretch of the imagination, Dolly overcompensated by being nice in a browbeaten way. She’d make somebody a good wife. Grateful, attentive.
If he batted for that team, he could do a hell of a lot worse than to take her out and show her there was more to life than being under the thumb of an old bat too cheap to see to her kid’s dental hygiene.
He smiled. Not with teeth. That was a bit too personal, too welcoming. Too fucking filled with promise. He asked, “You running Samson on Saturday?” The gelding was her fastest mount, though not necessarily her steadiest. He’d been the one to drop his shoulder and buck-pitch her during the sharp left turn. She’d landed on the lip of the barrel. With her mouth. Ouch. She was lucky to have any teeth left at all.
Dolly’s eyes sparkled as she nodded yes enthusiastically. Eyes darting toward the door, she asked sotto voce, “Will you be there?”
Michael tapped his forefinger on the girl’s nose, and this time he flashed her a genuine grin. “Wouldn’t miss it. But only on one condition.”
Blushing crimson, Dolly stuttered, “S-s-sure.”
“I need someone to hold my gelding while I get ready for the calf roping Friday afternoon. Think your ma would let you off to help me out?”
Dolly peered over his shoulder, her face lighting up with hope and delight. He was certain mom had just given the kid a thumb’s up. What mom, and Dolly, didn’t know was that his partner for the event was a painfully shy nineteen year old planning on becoming a veterinarian.
Feeling smug about his plans for playing cupid, he said his goodbyes and resumed his trip to the fairgrounds so he could sign up for the two events. He hadn’t planned on competing, but now that he was on enforced layup, so to speak, there was no reason why he couldn’t get back into rodeo competitions again.
It offered a bright spot in an otherwise shitty time of his life, the bittersweet memory of the last time he’d indulged his passion being when he’d had a steady partner to come home to. A man to love and to share nearly everything with.
A man who’d left him alone when a better offer had come along.
Paul had been partially right. He did need to get his head screwed on straight. But mostly he needed to get back out there, find somebody to have a real live conversation with. Give his right hand a rest.
Maybe being on vacation wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Chapter Two
Breaking Ties
“Seamus, hon, are you sure about this?”
Sonny cringed. He loved his mom to bits, but when she went all mother hen on his ass, questioning his choices like he was still her baby boy, it rankled. Big time.
“Leave him be, Maggie. Boy’s not a boy no more. Knows his own mind, I’m thinking.”
Thank you, Gramps. He could rely on the old gentleman to be the voice of reason in the family. The Rydells oscillated between the matriarchy, with Maggie the titular head, and his dad’s dad jutting out the family chin and plopping down a size fourteen boot when the ladies overstepped.
The ladies were his mom, two sisters, and a passel of cousins, aunts and hen house neighbors who tipped the scales solidly onto the distaff side of things. He’d grown up way too aware of his feminine side. If it hadn’t been for Gramps and his own crazy-ass buddies on the high school basketball team, he’d have ended up Barbie-dolling his way through Julliard instead of heading west young man and cowboying up at Wyoming State.
It’s a phase, sweety. Get it out of your system. Music will always be there for you.
Mom, God bless her, wasn’t wrong. Music was there for him. It was his rock, just not his passion. He’d found that in the empty spaces of the high country he’d dreamt about all his life and now got to call home. Or, at least he would once he got the good ship Rydell on the road to Vegas and Gramp’s retirement home in the desert suburbs.
He’d asked the senior Rydell why Vegas, why not Atlantic City which was closer to home and the beaches they’d all haunted for generations. Gramps had countered with, “Why Wyoming, son?” and waved the road atlas under his nose.
Sonny had smiled and replied, “Distance. I hear it makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Damn straight, Sonny boy. Good to know that fancy doctorate of yours is worth the paper it’s printed on.”
Sonny wasn’t sure about that, but he’d fallen into a perfect storm of political expediency and the need to woo voters with judicially applied government funds. Having a Rydell on the House’s Natural Resources standing committee hadn’t hurt either. His research proposal had earned notice and then legs.
Now, here he was, standing in front of his new temporary home, desperately trying to ease his family out the door so he could collapse, have a beer and then cruise into Laramie to catch the rodeo. He had the weekend to unpack, organize his bona fides, get himself oriented with a stack of topographic maps, then do the meet ’n greet with his new boss first thing Monday morning. No pressure, none whatsoever.
They all waved as Sonny’s two sisters pulled away in the U-Haul, heading south toward Vegas with his grandfather’s belongings. Gramps had Mom by the elbow. She was digging in with her sensible heels, torn between arguing with her father-in-law about who was driving the next leg and fussing over leaving her youngest to fend for himself in the middle of fucking nowhere. His mom had a mouth on her when it suited.
He and Gramps ex
changed a look. The old man nodded and mouthed be safe, then yielded to Maggie’s logic, folding into the passenger side with a groan and a sly smirk. He enjoyed losing skirmishes, all six-five of him, especially when it meant passing the baton to his only grandson. Sonny said a quick prayer under his breath that he was up to the task of winning the war and not crashing and burning.
Being the last of the male Rydells was a heavy burden to carry. Though he’d come out to his family at age fifteen—to acceptance and took you long enough to figure it out, bro—his mom still entertained hopes for a reversal of fortunes and at least one direct male descendant. He kind of understood her position. His sisters and cousins, all of them were baby factories, all producing daughters, one after another. He really needed somebody in the family to take one for Team Rydell and pop a boy, just... not him.
The situation made for a lot of good-natured teasing. He’d miss it, on one level, but he was more than ready to break the ties binding him to their world. He wanted to make his own mistakes, find his own way. Make his mark in his career. Maybe being a researcher with the USDA Forest Service didn’t seem very sexy to his family—or anyone else—but for him it was a dream come true. A dream tinged with a measure of guilt that he’d had a career boost from a well-positioned relative. But that made him all the more determined to prove his worth.
His research proposal to God’s ear had landed him with a chance to establish some baseline studies in changing habitats. He’d have preferred a less populated region than the Medicine Bow National Forest, but visibility was key when applying for funding. There was nothing quite so high profile as a career politician spreading largesse and bon homie in his legislative district.
Given the circumstances, it hadn’t worked out too badly for a twenty-eight-year-old, freshly minted PhD, with nothing more than a half dozen summer internships under his belt.
Wending his way through a small stack of boxes, Sonny headed back outside to sneak a peek at the place he’d call home for the foreseeable future. The ranch was a lot like him, fresh and raw, the buildings still carrying the scent of newly sawn wood. It was shiny and blatantly touristy, but he didn’t mind. Three Bars was midway between the Laramie office and the scenic byway bisecting the Snowy Range and the national forest.
As new as the guest ranch was, there were already quite a few amenities on offer: RV pads in a cluster off to the north of the property, a knot of small cabins spaced wide enough apart you got the illusion of privacy, a central lodge where you could take your meals and hang out after a long day filled with activities, and a series of barns and paddocks for visiting riders or for local residents needing to board their horses. The surrounding hills were riddled with pathways as antelope and Black Angus cattle shared grazing rights. A relatively flat section of the valley to the east had been set aside for hay and barley where the terrain was most suited to a wagon wheel irrigation system.
The boarding had sealed the deal for him. He didn’t mind living rough when it came to his own comfort, but for his mare and the ornery mule who was velcroed to her side, nothing but the best would do. What Sonny had seen so far suited his needs perfectly. As for his mounts, he hoped they’d settle in fast and be ready to rock ’n roll. Summer lasted about as long as a smoke in a gale in these parts. To meet his targets and do preliminary studies, he needed to get into the high country before he ran out of luck and reasonable weather.
“Is everything to your liking, Mr. Rydell?” The manager strolled toward him, his gait rolling and loose jointed. He looked like a cowboy should. Tall, lean and squinty-eyed. Sonny had been surprised to learn the man was a city boy from corporate offices in Nashville running a string of western B&Bs and guest ranches. Knowing that did nothing to detract from the image. From their frequent phone calls and emails, Sonny knew the man to be clever, resourceful and willing to listen to local wisdom when it came to fitting in.
Extending his hand, he said, “Sonny, please, Mr. Bowen. Nice to finally meet you.”
The man tipped his hat and shook the proffered hand. “Sonny, it is. You can call me Hank.” He grinned, flashing even, white teeth. “Actually it’s William, Billy Bob to those who knew me back when in Tennessee. The VP thought Hank sounded better on the letterhead.” The big man chuckled as he said, “I live to serve.”
Sonny scanned the horizon, admiring the view. He asked, “How long you been open, Hank?” He took a step toward the barn just downslope of his cabin, antsy to check on his mare again. His mom wasn’t a horse person and Gramps had begged off when he’d seen the steep drop so he’d had to satisfy himself with a quick look around and a pat on her nose.
Hank followed along, explaining, “We opened the lodge three years ago, testing the waters. Corporate thought we were nuts pushing to go live in the middle of winter. Turned out to be a banner year for snow, and the ski facility couldn’t handle the demand. That left us sitting pretty and raking in enough capital to move ahead with phase two.”
“Phase two?”
Hank nodded. “You’re making phase two your home. These cabins, the barns, and the paddocks came next. Earlier this year we put in a dozen RV pads and hook-ups.” He grimaced. “Don’t mind telling you that was a bitch of an experience.”
Sonny chuckled. “Let me guess. Environmental impact statements?”
“Out the whazoo. If I’d known we’d have our very own environmental specialist living on site, I’d have waited a year and let you take point.”
Chuckling, Sonny remarked, “Sewage systems aren’t my strong suit. I’m more a wetlands and timber specialist, but yeah. I know what you mean. Been studying the lingo for nearly six years now.”
“How long before you’re fluent?”
Sonny skidded down the bank and landed with a jolt and an expulsion of breath. Dusting himself off, he said, “Word in D.C. is that I won’t earn my translator wings until I’m at least forty.”
“They’ll have changed the rules by then, won’t they?”
“Bingo, Hank. I’m figuring it’s job security if nothing else.”
A soft nicker greeted them, followed by an ear-bleeding bray. Hank barked, “Jesus, where’d you find that thing? He looks like he was put together by a committee what never seen a mule.” Hank’s good ole boy drawl came through thick as molasses.
Amused, Sonny explained, “My best guess, looking at the solid bone and the coloring, is that the dam was an Appaloosa draft cross. That might explain the size, though he looks more pinto than Appy with the splotches of white.”
Hank bent down to give the mule a better look, shaking his head the whole time. “Where’d you find ’em?” He flicked a finger to include the little mare. “Kinda small for a big fella like you, ain’t she?” He dug in his shirt pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lifted an eyebrow. Sonny nodded yes, thankful his mom and grandpa weren’t around to remind him he needed to quit.
A niggling thought bumped shoulders with a vague promise. A trade actually. When he was out on trail, doing surveys, whatever... no smoking allowed. But in bars, with friends shooting the shit, yeah he was gonna indulge. You kept your sanity whatever way worked. This was his way until he found something a little more interesting to satisfy his cravings.
Like a boyfriend. Or a fuck buddy. Hell, even a casual hookup would do the trick...
Sighing with satisfaction Sonny inhaled, held it for a heartbeat and exhaled through his nose, the smoke drifting away in the light breeze.
Hank set a booted foot on the lowest rail of the paddock fence and confessed, “The missus would kick my ass six ways from Sunday.” He flicked the ash off the smoldering tip. “I hate sneaking around but...” He shrugged. “She’s a teetotaler, too. Makes it hard, ya know?”
Sonny did, in a way. His mom had a whole set of rules to live by. Most were good, healthful even. Good book kinda living. When his dad passed, she’d had to take on being mother and father to her three kids, despite having a tribe of women and Gramps to help her along the way. Ma
ggie Rydell stepped up to the plate, as always, doing it her way. With discipline, respect, and a boatload of compromise. It had laid a good foundation for when he was ready to take the next step.
In answer to Hank’s question about the mare, Sonny said, “I picked them up at an auction over in Pennsy right before classes started at the university. They were in a holding pen, just the two of them. Skinny, bones and ribs sticking out. Feet hadn’t been trimmed in God only knows how long. That old mule, he wouldn’t leave the mare. Anyone could see he was hell bent on protecting her.” He scratched the mare’s muzzle and cooed a greeting. “The auction was done for the day, leaving them as the last two to be loaded onto the meat wagon. They didn’t want the mule, just the mare. He damn near kicked them into the next county when they tried herding her into the chute.”
The manager muttered, “Shit. I hate hearing that kind of thing.”
“Well, there was no way I was leaving either of them to that hell. I had fifty bucks in my pocket. The driver was the one who took it. Wished me luck.” Sonny shuddered, remembering that day as clear as if it had just happened yesterday.
Cocking his head, Hank said, “Let me guess. You never owned a horse before.”
“You got that in one. What I did own was a broke down stock trailer I picked up earlier that day. I was gonna use it to haul my shit across country, then maybe pick up a horse when I got settled. Funny how things work out.”
“How so?”
“Well, coupla nice ladies from a rescue organization helped me load them and gave me some phone numbers for a farrier and a place to get enough hay to last me for a bit. Got them home, put them in the back yard. Long story short, I used the stock trailer to bring them out here, and my two sisters drove the van with my Mom and grandpa riding caboose in the SUV. Made quite a sight with that caravan.”
Sonny smiled. Here it was, years later and they’d re-enacted that parade, down to his sisters driving a U-haul with his gramp’s worldly possessions bound for Vegas, and his mom dropping him off with his now aged mounts in tow. But this time he wasn’t a greenhorn kid with stars in his eyes.