Long Tall Drink

by L. C. Chase

  Ray sighed. “It’s Sunday, Dot.”

  Travis slanted a glance at Ray, intrigued by the somewhat chastised tone of the man’s response.

  “Stock doesn’t take a day off eating just because you take a day off working.”

  Dot stepped down the three steps off the porch and shifted her sharp gaze to Travis. She was a good half foot shorter than he yet seemed to tower over him. He shifted his feet apart, attempting to balance himself under the weight of her stare. He felt exposed somehow and certain very little escaped the woman’s notice. Travis knew right then, without a doubt, she was one woman he’d be wise never to cross.

  Ray’s response to her wasn’t quite so intriguing anymore.

  “And who might you be, son?”

  He removed his hat, held it against his chest, and stepped forward as he extended his hand. “Travis, ma’am. Travis Morgan.”

  She eyed him as if deciding whether or not to believe he was who he said he was, and took his hand. Her grip was strong and sure as they shook. Then her eyes softened, and a smile lit them from behind, putting him immediately at ease. This one would no doubt keep him on his toes. He liked her already.

  “What brings you to Ford Creek, Travis Morgan? Besides Raymond here?”

  “Looking for work, ma’am. I train cattle horses.”

  “Dot. Call me Dot, please.”

  He smiled warmly. “Dot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She regarded him for a moment. “Travis Morgan, you say?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you. Well, you’re certainly welcome here.”

  “Thank you, ma—Dot. Don’t suppose you could introduce me to the owner?”

  Dot looked from Travis to Ray, laughter dancing in her sharp eyes, and chuckled. She shook her head and turned back for the house.

  “You’re standing next to him, son,” Dot said over her shoulder as she opened the door and disappeared inside.

  Travis turned to face Ray, the man’s expression locked down and unreadable. Well, shit was right. If he had any sense at all, he’d turn around and hightail it out of there right now.

  Ray struck out his hand. “Ray Ford. Owner of Ford Creek Ranch.”

  Travis reached for Ray’s hand, ignoring the need to run. The rancher’s grip was firm, confident, and the warmth of his skin tingled in Travis’s palm. They stood facing each other, gazes locked, hands clasped but no longer shaking. Ray let go after an extended beat. Travis felt the instant absence of the simple touch.

  Ray cleared his throat, but his voice sounded rough when he spoke. “Just so happens I have a herd of green horses fresh off winter pasture in need of training.”

  “Just so happens I train horses.” And shit if his voice didn’t sound the same.

  “So it would seem.”

  “You’ll be needing what I’m offering then.”

  Ray paused, and the muscles in his clenched jaw twitched. “As I said. You’re—”

  “I know,” Travis cut in with a half smile, “I’m in luck.”

  Ray didn’t move, his eyes and body language once again giving his thoughts away. For a second—a drawn-out, charged second—Travis thought Ray would take a step forward, reach out, touch. Travis almost made the move to do so himself, but Ray took a step back. Shutters dropped firmly into place.

  Ray cleared his throat and gave Travis a cool smile, but he wasn’t fooled. The man was just as affected as he was.

  “I’ll introduce you to my foreman. He’ll get you sorted out.”

  Travis tipped his head, tapping the brim of his hat with a forefinger. “Boss.”

  Ray regarded him a moment longer, then nodded and turned toward the barns. Travis grinned as he hiked his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and followed Ray, enjoying the view of that tight ass wrapped in snug jeans.

  Chapter Two

  “I have about a dozen men on the ranch at any given time,” Ray began as he led Travis across the yard. “Being that it’s Sunday, most the hands are off-site. They’ll start rolling back in toward dinner time.”

  Travis was only half listening. The words didn’t matter as much as the smooth, musical intonation that carried them. The low, thudding scuffle of their boot heels striking hard-packed dirt laid down a steady bass track.

  He couldn’t deny how attracted he was to Ray and found himself regretting that they hadn’t met at a different time under different circumstance. But for all intents and purposes, this man was his boss for the next few months. Fucking around with nameless strangers picked up in nameless bars was one thing, but with a man like Ray Ford? Travis shook his head and ran his gaze over the length of Ray’s frame. Nope. Getting too close would only put both of their hard-earned and well-established reputations in jeopardy.

  Attempting to deflect his visual imaginings of the man walking a step ahead of him, Travis turned his attention to the surroundings.

  A small, inviting lake stretched out behind the ranch house. On its banks, a copse of tall pines huddled against the ever-present Montana winds that rustled harmoniously through their limbs—nature’s singsong. A long rope with two knotted handholds at the end hung from the thick branch of a tree that extended out over the water. An image played out in his mind of a young Ray, gangly and uncoordinated, laughing as he swung back and forth on the rope, gaining enough momentum to launch himself far into the lake.

  It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that the somewhat serious-looking adult Ray could have been a playful and carefree boy.

  And like a bee drawn to honey, Travis found his gaze pulled back to the handsome rancher.

  Beneath the band of Ray’s black cowboy hat, dark brown hair trimmed just above the collar rested neatly against his neck. He was of average height, a couple of inches shorter than Travis’s six feet. His build was stocky with broad shoulders and thick legs, complementing Travis’s longer, leaner frame. An image of that strong body shot through his mind, one not quite as innocent as kids playing on rope swings during the dog days of summer.

  Mind on the surroundings, Travis. Mind on the surroundings.

  The surroundings weren’t overmuch different from most working ranches: main barn flanked by two outbuildings, one of which revealed farm equipment and vehicles through an open bay door. Beat-up trucks covered with so much dust and dirt their original colors were indistinguishable, parked alongside the barn. Two gooseneck horse trailers sat on wood blocks beyond the trucks.

  On the far side of the barn were two large corrals—one of which held a small herd of horses, a single horse in the other—a couple of round pens and cattle runs, and beyond that, open range as far as the eye could see.

  Ray led Travis into the barn, down a double row of large box stalls separated by a tidy concrete hall. The stalls were empty, but the indigenous odors of an active stable—cedar shavings, timothy, leather and liniment, that unique salty-sweet scent of horse—were a soothing balm to his soul. There wasn’t anything else he’d rather do, could imagine doing, than working with horses. They were the only living creatures that truly accepted him as he was.

  They turned into a small office at the end of the hallway. An older man with thick salt-and-pepper hair sat behind a cluttered desk toward the back of the room. His attention was focused on a sheaf of paper as he gnawed on the end of a pen, shoulders scrunched tight. The man looked up with a frustrated sigh as they entered; his brows furrowed, and a slight frown was on his mouth—what could be seen of his mouth anyway. The fellow had the thickest handlebar mustache Travis had ever seen.

  “Morning, Hol.”

  “Mornin’, Ray.” His voice was thick and graveled. He nodded toward Travis. “Who you got here?”

  “Travis Morgan. My foreman, Hollis Ames.”

  Travis stepped forward as Hollis rose and stepped around the desk to take Travis’s hand in a quick shake. “Mr. Ames.”

  Hollis chuckled. “We don’t stand on formality around here, son. Hollis’ll do.”

  “Hollis
then.”

  “Travis will be training the horses for the Remuda midsummer.”

  Travis shot Ray a surprised glance. Having the horses he’d trained going to the Remuda competition and sales would be a major coup on his résumé. And more reason to stay clear of the rancher and focus on the job at hand.

  Hollis cupped his chin with a sun-baked, leather-skinned hand and rubbed at the thick stubble on his cheeks with his thumb. His gaze shifted over Travis’s shoulder, going distant for a second before returning. “Travis Morgan, eh. Yeah, I’ve heard of you.”

  He dropped his hand, reached for a well-worn cowboy hat, and plopped it on his head. “All righty then, let’s get you settled.”

  Ray nodded to the two men, then turned and disappeared from the office.

  “This way, son,” Hollis said as he led Travis in the opposite direction. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of Ray’s retreating backside.

  “We’ll stop at your quarters first.” Hollis gestured to a horseshoe-shaped cluster of small log cabins behind the barn, hidden from the main house. A large fire pit sat in the middle of the semicircle, flanked by three halved logs for benches. The faint smell of campfire smoke permeated the air.

  The soft lowing of nearby cattle and the snorts of restless horses in the corral sang in chorus with the quiet buzz of insects.

  “Five hands live on-site. The rest have families to go home to. Cabin on the end there is empty. You can call that one home while you’re here.” Hollis stepped up onto the small porch and opened the door to a simple room with basic but comfortable-looking furniture: narrow bed, small desk with a chair tucked under its ledge, dresser, and wood-burning stove—and his own private bathroom. It may as well have been the Waldorf compared to some of his past accommodations. But then, he wasn’t a picky man when it came to taking a load off his feet. He tossed his duffel bag on the bed and followed Hollis back outside.

  The tour and running commentary finally ended at the corrals. Both men rested their arms on the top rail and hooked a boot on the bottom rung.

  “Just brought this herd down from winter pasture last week. Some are a bit wild, but most had some ground work last season. Mostly three- and four-year-old mares and geldings, but we got one stallion. That boy back there”—Hollis motioned to the horse with a corral to himself—“that’s Diablo.”

  The stallion stood head high, ears pricked forward, chest out. Dark, intelligent eyes sharp and observant. His coat was a rich blue-black, the only marking a crescent moon-shaped white snip on his muzzle.

  Travis’s curiosity was instantly piqued. That horse was going to challenge him, and damn if he didn’t thrive on a good challenge.

  “Tough son of a bitch,” Hollis continued. “Be sure and watch your back around that one. But you won’t be getting near him anyways. Beast is too wild for anyone but Ray to handle, and he’s done past lettin’ anyone else try.”

  “Good thing I’m not just anyone,” Travis said. “If the horse needs training, I’d like to take a crack at him.”

  Hollis stepped back from the rails with a chuckle and clapped Travis on the back. “Good luck with that, son.”

  “What?” Aggressive horses were his specialty. Why he wouldn’t be allowed to work with one that obviously needed the most attention didn’t make sense.

  “Breakfast and dinner are up at the main house there. Six a.m., six p.m.” Hollis continued. The Diablo subject clearly closed. “Try not to be late if you want a full plate. Boys around here got a hearty appetite and burn through Dot’s cookin’ like a pack of rabid dogs. Lunch is a serve yourself deal whenever you get hungry. Dot leaves a stack of sandwiches in the kitchen.

  “Sundays are quiet. Rest of the day is yours. Wander around. Get yourself settled. Plenty to be done come mornin’.” The older man tapped his brim and ambled back to his office in the barn.

  Travis turned back to the corral with the big black stallion. The proud horse met his gaze and held it in silent challenge. Travis smiled. “You and me, boy. You and me.”

  Travis made a point of being on time to the main house for dinner, and the moment he opened the door, that sense of home hit him again. Warm air soothed over skin cooled from a biting evening breeze. Fresh-baked rolls and the mouthwatering scent of roasted beef and garlic assaulted his senses. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since he’d stopped at a roadside café at five that morning.

  He stepped into a large foyer with cowboy boots stacked along the wall, jackets and hats hanging haphazardly on pegs above. Adding his gear to the collection, he exited the foyer. To the left was an inviting living room with a dark brown leather couch and two matching oversize chairs, distressed oak accent furniture, a rocker in the corner, and a large stone fireplace. Off the far side of the room, a hallway and stairwell led deeper into the house. To the right of the foyer was the dining room. Western-themed black-and-white photographs hung on the wall; a grandfather clock stood guard next to a door he figured led to the kitchen. Taking up the majority of the room sat a massive rectangular wood table.

  Travis nodded at Hollis and the few men already seated. “Evening.”

  He’d met the men who lived on-site as they’d trickled back to the ranch over the course of the afternoon, as well as a few who lived off-site. With the exception of one disapproving glare, they’d been friendly and welcoming.

  “Pull up a chair and dig in while the diggin’s good,” Hollis said.

  Travis took the chair next to Ross Dennison, who’d taken it upon himself to ensure Travis knew the who’s who and what’s what. He was a jovial sort in his late thirties with Elvis Presley sideburns and had been a fixture on Ford Creek going on twenty years. Aside from Ray, Hollis, and Dot, no one knew the comings and goings of the ranch better. When Hollis wasn’t around, which was rare he was told, Ross was the man in charge.

  “I could hear your stomach growling before you opened the door,” Ross said as he handed Travis a platter loaded with thick slices of steaming hot roast beef. “Load up, man. I ain’t carrying your ass out of the mud when you keel over from starvation.”

  Travis couldn’t help grinning as he thanked the man and took the proffered platter. Only a few hours, and it already felt like he and Ross had been friends for years.

  Jesse Davis, an eager kid he’d met earlier, pulled up the chair on Travis’s other side and plopped down. “Evening, Travis. Mind if I sit here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I mind.” The voice was sharp and hard, drawing the table’s attention. Sam Davis. The one cowboy who’d glared at Travis during introductions. “Switch seats with Clay.”

  “Dad—” Jesse began.

  “Move.” Sam’s order brooked no room for argument. Travis noted the flush of pink rise up the kid’s neck as he got up and traded seats with Clay Fisher, a young man about Jesse’s age. Embarrassment poured off the poor kid in waves.

  “What’s your problem, Sam?” Ross asked.

  “Don’t want my boy sitting near the likes of him.” Sam jutted his chin across the table in Travis’s direction and leveled him a hard, meant-to-intimidate look with his steel gray eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, Sam,” Ross started, his cutlery clanked loudly as it dropped to his plate. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say to a man you just met?”

  “It’s all right, Ross,” Travis said, meeting Sam’s gaze head-on. “I’ll handle it.”

  He nodded his head slightly, giving Sam the floor to start the same old song and dance.

  “Heard some rumors about you.”

  Here we go. Travis sighed inwardly and regarded the man with controlled outward calm. The men about the table held their collective breaths at the clear challenge in Sam’s words. There was one like him on just about every ranch. But Travis had hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with one so soon after North Dakota. And he was getting so tired of having to deal with it at all.

  He could usually put the rumors to rest early on and
avoid being hassled, but every now and then he came across someone who wouldn’t let up, which usually had him departing earlier than intended.

  Fucking rumors. One of these days he was going to say “fuck it all” and come kicking out of the chute like an angry Brahma bull. But not today.

  “Have you now?” Travis held his voice level and gaze steady.

  “Heard you’re one of them queer boys.”

  The steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock was the only sound in the large room. Meals forgotten, all hands’ eyes were riveted to the potential showdown at the end of the table.

  “S’pose you heard that I trained grizzly bears in Alaska too.”

  Confusion clouded Sam’s eyes as the comment obviously made no sense to the man. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Exactly,” Ross muttered.

  “Not a damn thing. But then, I’ve never been to Alaska, so obviously that isn’t true. Although I have encountered a few bears.” Travis paused. “But unless I’m mistaken, we’ve never met before today. Have we?”

  Sam shook his head, barely.

  “Didn’t think so,” Travis continued. “That being the case, I don’t see how you’d have any idea one way or the other what is or isn’t the truth.”

  Sam remained silent, but his gaze never wavered from Travis’s. The man’s clenched jaw ticked, his cheeks flushed the ruddy color of his scruffy beard, and storms broke out in his cold eyes. His voice was flat and challenging as he practically spat the words out. “Ranchin’s a man’s business.”

  Travis let that comment settle in the space between them for a moment. Then made a point of flashing a half smile he knew wouldn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Last I checked I’m all man.”

  A snicker from Clay’s direction encroached on the edges of Travis’s hearing. Tension vibrated thickly in the air. Neither man broke their hard stares. Any second the antique clock would chime high noon, and the standoff would be settled by the quickest draw.