by Desiree Holt
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Knockin’ Boots
Copyright © 2015 by Desiree Holt
ISBN: 978-1-61333-792-9
Cover art by Syneca Featherstone
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Knockin’ Boots
By
Desiree Holt
A Beyond Fairytales Adaptation of
The Brothers Grimm’s:
The Boots of Buffalo Leather
Dedication
To Slick Reads, whose friendship means more than I can say, and to Margie Hager, who keeps me on the straight and narrow.
Prologue
The day has been a long and dusty one, moving several hundred head of cattle to the summer grazing pastures. The unrelenting sun is finally heading toward the horizon, painting the meadows and trees with a patina of gold. The sounds of the cattle lowing carry all the way to the ranch house and the barns. Horses are wiped down, fed, and watered and now nicker softly in their stalls, glad to rest after a day chasing errant cows.
The cowboys are tired, hungry, and thirsty, ready for a hot meal and a cold beer. They drink greedily from the cool water pouring from a hose and wet their bandanas to wipe away the layers of trail dust. Extra hands brought in to help with the chores gather at picnic tables beneath a stand of mature oaks, ready for a hearty chuck wagon meal.
A man stands at the outdoor grills, serving up chili and cornbread and pithy comments. He is just over five feet tall, wizened in his worn plaid shirt and jeans, and boots that look older than he is. His beard is different shades of gray, matching his unruly hair, and on his head sits a hat that saw its better days years ago. No one knows how old he is or even where he came from. All they know is he showed up at the ranch one day, looking for work, and he’s been here ever since.
Everyone calls him Nick, although that may or may not be his real name. They just know he makes food fit for the gods and has stories to tell that capture the imagination. Tonight, as they chow down, the cowboys urge him to sit with them and take their minds off their aching bodies with one of his spicier stories. They’ve been on the range for a while, without women for a stretch as they’ve continued to point out, and want something to feed minds as hungry as their bodies.
Nodding, Nick pulls a pipe from his pocket—more a prop than anything since he no longer smokes it—and heads for the middle table. The hands still chowing down slide over to make room for him as he swings his slightly crooked legs over the bench to take a seat at the middle table.
“So ya want a story?” He looks around, satisfied at all the nods in his direction.
“A hot one,” someone calls out. “We ain’t had no women for a while.”
“Hmmm.” He bites down on the stem of the unlit pipe and frowns, his straggly gray brows drawing together. Scratches his chin. “Okay, then. Here’s one hotter than that chili ya got there.”
Leaning forward on his elbows, he begins.
“Once upon a time….”
Chapter One
Maybe this town will be the place. Maybe I’ll find peace here.
Maybe I’ll find a woman to help me get that peace.
But Clint Gorman had almost given up hope he’d find what he was looking for anywhere. As he rolled through state after state on his massive Ducati motorcycle, stopping in town after town, the sense of place he’d been looking for continued to elude him. So he mounted up and rode on. Maybe his problem was he carried his troubles with him, and everyone knew you couldn’t outrun trouble. It sat on your shoulder until you dealt it a final blow.
If only he could figure out how to do that.
A small town somewhere might offer what he needed. He’d thought, at first, he might like the environment of a big city, but after three tours of duty in Afghanistan, the noise and bustle were too much of an assault on his senses. Impulse had propelled him to spend a chunk of his saved-up pay on the gleaming black beast and head west. He had no destination in mind, other than someplace where he could find peace and a respite from the nightmares plaguing him.
A sign that said Whistling Creek, Texas Pop. 1023 popped into his line of sight. Those signs always made him wonder if someone actually counted heads to get the exact number. He roared into this little Texas town, pulled his motorcycle to the curb, shut off the ignition, and pushed the kickstand down with his foot. Removing his helmet, he raked his fingers through his sun-streaked, shaggy blond hair then sat for a moment, still straddling the bike, his eyes scanning the area.
Whistling Creek’s Main Street reminded him of a hundred others he’d cruised through since he left the East Coast, each with its own flavor. He took in the shops and businesses lining both sides of the street, the antique-looking lampposts, the benches carefully situated for shoppers to stop and gab for a while. The tubs of flowers adding color. The people leisurely strolling the sidewalks, as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Clint inhaled deeply. Even in town, the Texas air smelled sweet and fresh, a far cry from the dust of Afghanistan or the gasoline-tinged air of the cities. Every area of the country he’d wound his way through on his bike had its own particular scent, but the perfume of Texas—a blend of grass, hay, cattle, and horses—had a soothing effect on him. God knew he needed it. Was it his imagination, or did the sun seem brighter here, the women more beautiful, the people friendlier.
As he sat there, letting the feel of Texas roll over him, an unfamiliar peace descended on him, a feeling he hadn’t had for too many years. Maybe he’d hang around for a while. Surely, even as small as it appeared, Whistling Creek had a motel of some kind.
Texas. He hadn’t expected to find the Lone Star ambience reaching out to him like this. Still, he’d ridden hors
es when he was younger and even owned a Stetson once, so maybe this little Texas town was the place he was looking for. Could he find relief from his nightmares here? Could this be the place he’d find the elusive peace he sought so desperately?
It would be nice if he could also find a woman to lose himself in, preferably one whose sexual tastes matched his. Who didn’t mind a little kink. He’d been without one for far too long, afraid his nightmares would descend on him at the wrong time. He was lonely, though. He’d cut his ties with everyone he knew when he left the East Coast, tired of their pity and sick of seeing everyone else’s perfect life. He wasn’t even sure anymore what he wanted, but he figured he’d know it if it came up and slapped him in the face.
He climbed off the bike and stretched his tall, rangy body, working out the kinks as he surveyed the scene around him. His attention was caught by a store directly across the street. The sign, hand carved, said The Bootery, and even from here, he could see the display of Western boots in the window. Years ago, when he was a kid—Really? He could recall that far back?—he and his friends had played Wild West. More than anything, he’d wanted a pair of fancy cowboy boots. Maybe it was time to indulge himself.
He stopped to study the display for a moment, mesmerized by the intricate design on some of the boots and the different shadings of the leather. Just do it, he told himself. When he opened the door, a bell rang over the lintel, and a man behind the counter looked up, a curious expression on his face. Another man stood there, paying for a purchase. Clint nodded and found a smile somewhere.
“Afternoon.” The man he assumed was the owner smiled at him. “Come on in. You looking for a pair of boots?”
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable in the small store, Clint debated leaving. Then he thought, What the hell.
“Yeah. Figured I’d give myself a treat.”
“Let me finish up with Dan here and I’ll take care of you. Meanwhile, have a look around.”
Clint liked the dark wood paneling lining the walls, the boots displayed on wooden shoe shelves. He saw the little metal signs indicating the best known brands—Tony Lama, Lucchese, Ariat, Frye. He picked up one in different shades of brown, the leather soft and supple in his hand.
The shopkeeper finished attending to business and came over to stand beside him. “You want them to ride a horse or that beast you parked across the street?”
Clint frowned. “Is there a difference?”
“Could be.” He came out from behind the counter. “Might have one that could do for both.” He held out his hand. “Paul Grady.”
Clint shook the proffered hand. “Clint Gorman. Saw your shop and decided to buy myself a present.”
“You staying around a while or just passing through?”
The customer holding his new purchase burst into a laugh. “Paul, you don’t need his pedigree to sell him a damn pair of boots.”
“Just being friendly,” Paul grumped. “Him being a stranger and all.”
Clint looked at the other man, nearly as tall as he was but leaner, with dark hair. “I guess strangers stick out here.”
“You know how small towns are.” Another handshake. “Dan Franklin. Welcome to town. If you’re looking for a good pair of boots, Paul can fix you up fine.”
Clint wasn’t surprised at how much went into selecting the proper Western boot. The same process applied to a really good motorcycle boot. Fit, comfort, durability, all major points. He had two pairs he’d spent a good bit of money on, but since he practically lived in them, they were worth the expense. He hoped he could say the same about the Luccheses Paul brought out for him to try on. Especially when he looked on the boxes and saw the price.
“It only hurts for a minute,” Dan joked when he saw where Clint was looking. “Trust me, good boots are worth every penny.”
And truly, once he slipped on the supple leather, stood, and walked around the store, he agreed. Just like his motorcycle boots, you got what you paid for. He finally settled on a pair that cost too much but felt too good not to buy. If he stayed in town for a few days, he’d have time to break them in.
Dan Franklin opened the door for him and followed him outside.
“It’s noon, and I’m about to grab a meal at Creekside Diner. How about letting me show you some local hospitality and buy you lunch?”
Clint stared at him. “Why would you want to do that?”
Dan shrugged. “You’re a traveler in town, you look like a nice guy, and I don’t like to eat alone.”
Clint lifted an eyebrow. “And you don’t have anyone else to eat with? I find that hard to believe. I’ll bet everyone in town knows you.”
Dan threw back his head and laughed. “Sometimes that’s the problem. Come on. I’m harmless, I promise.”
Clint hesitated a moment. Dan Franklin looked to be about his own age, thirty-five. He didn’t know the man from Adam, but something about him made Clint feel comfortable. At ease. Maybe his relaxed stance or the humor sparking in his eyes. Maybe his smile or the air of confidence he wore like a shirt. Hell, he hadn’t had a conversation with anyone but himself since he’d headed west. Besides, if he did decide to stay here awhile, it would be nice to know someone, especially someone who wasn’t aware of certain parts of his history.
“Sure,” he said at last. “That would be nice. Thanks.”
He waited while Dan climbed into his pickup at the curb then cranked up the beast and followed him along Main Street. They were almost out of the shopping district when Dan made a right turn, Clint right on his bumper. At the end of a short block sat a stone building with a wide front porch. The parking lot was pretty full, but they found space at the side of the building. Behind it, a short lawn sloped down to an actual creek bubbling along over a rocky bottom. The sound was so soothing, he wanted to stand there for a moment and let it wrap itself around him.
“So there really is a Whistling Creek,” he commented.
“Sure is.” Dan grinned. “Of course, I’ve never heard it whistle, but there are some old timers who say it does. Anyway, come on inside, and we’ll see if we can grab a table.”
They found a booth, tucked away in a corner, being cleared, and eased themselves into it. Clint took in his surroundings. It looked like every small-town restaurant he’d stopped in along the way—warm, welcoming, filled with people smiling and gabbing. In the others, he’d felt like such an outsider, but here, he had an immediate sense of belonging. What was it about this place, anyway? Had something been pulling him here all along?
Dan exchanged greetings with the waitress who handed them plastic-covered menus, and they ordered coffee.
“So.” Dan relaxed in his seat. “What brings you on the journey that landed you here? Looking for someplace to settle or just passing through?”
After the waitress filled two mugs, Clint picked his up and took a sip. “I’m not exactly sure how to answer.”
Dan studied him over the rim of his coffee mug. “Footloose and fancy free? No one waiting at home for you to get rid of the wanderlust?”
Clint had been very careful to watch his conversation with people at his other stops. Reveal little or nothing about himself. But he seemed to have an invisible link with the dark, quiet man sitting across from him. For the first time since he’d returned to the states, he was relaxed, at ease, a very unusual state for him.
“Three months ago, I finished my third tour in Afghanistan.” He fiddled with the spoon in front of him.
“A long stretch,” Dan commented. “Must have been really tough.”
Clint took another sip of coffee as he gathered his thoughts. “You could say that. Yeah, you could definitely say that.”
“So, you’re looking for, what, someplace to settle? No family waiting back home?”
“I needed to get away from everyone.” He looked directly at Dan across the table. “Too many questions, too much sympathy. Know what I mean?”
“I do.” He nodded then seemed content to wait for Clint to speak again.
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The hum of chatter was loud enough their conversation wasn’t likely to be overheard, and that, too, helped Clint relax.
“I think I need a place to just park my bike for a while, where I can heal and get my brains together. I’m not sure I’m fit for civilian life yet.”
“Whistling Creek’s a nice place to hang out. You looking for work, by any chance?”
Clint shook his head. “Not at the moment. Leastways not until I know if I want to plant myself. I’ve got plenty of combat pay I haven’t spent, so I’m set for money.” He gave a half laugh. “What I’m really looking for is a woman.”
Damn it, Clint. You just met the guy.
Yet, already on this short acquaintance, Dan Franklin made him feel comfortable in his own skin, a most unusual sensation for him. And, damn it! Good, hot, kinky sex could really take his edge off.
“Well, I have to say, at least you put it out there.” Dan’s chuckle was low and deep. “Any special type or will anyone do?”
Before he could answer, the waitress materialized next to their booth.
“You guys decide what you want yet?”
They both ordered. Clint was still turning things over in his mind when she said, “Be out in just a few minutes.” She refilled their mugs and hurried off to put in their order.
Clint realized Dan was still watching him, waiting quietly for him to go on. Could he tell him what his tastes really were? What if the guy thought him a weirdo, got up and walked out? Well, as long as he didn’t punch his lights out Clint guessed he’d be no worse off than he was.
“I, uh, have some very specific tastes.” He looked down at his hands wrapped around his mug. “Some might even say kinky.”
Dan laughed again. “I think that term leaves a lot of room for interpretation. I’d say as long as there aren’t any animals in the mix or any type of mayhem, you’re entitled to do whatever you like.”