Lone Star on a Cowboy Heart

by Marie S. Crosswell

  “What do you mean, you wanted to be with her?” Sam asks, his voice now soft, softer than the fire. His eyes are glassy.

  “I would’ve stayed married to her if I could’ve,” Montgomery says. “Been her partner in life. Without the sex, without the romance. And maybe she could’ve had someone else besides me, a man who could give her those things. But we still would’ve been partners, you know? Family.”

  Sam doesn’t reply or look away.

  “It’s a crazy idea. But she was one of my best friends. I just wish that counted for something.”

  Sam stares at Montgomery in silence, as if he can come to understand him that way. The whole house is dark and quiet, except for the intermittent crackling of the fire and their breathing. A little light from the stars and the moon filters through the windows at the front of the room, silvery white. Sam reaches out and lays his hand on Montgomery’s face, cupping his cheek. They look at each other in silence, the glow of the fire on their skin, the gleam of it in their eyes. The whiskey bottle’s still between them.

  “You’re lonely as hell, aren’t you?” Sam says.

  Montgomery pauses, eyes fixed on Sam’s. “I know you are,” he says. He wants to cover Sam’s hand with his own but he doesn’t.

  “How?”

  Montgomery swallows. “Because here you are settling for my company.”

  “You’re good company,” Sam says.

  Montgomery closes his eyes, feeling Sam’s hand on his cheek and waiting for it to slip away.

  “Hey.”

  Montgomery opens his eyes, but they stay half-lidded, heavy with alcohol and the heat of the fire.

  “I care about you,” Sam says. “And I want to be your friend. But if you don’t want to be mine, just tell me.”

  Montgomery reaches out and lays his hand on Sam’s side, over his ribs. He’s almost surprised at himself for the motion, but he doesn’t pull back. “We are friends,” he says.

  Sam smiles—the kind of deep, true, happy smile that reaches his eyes and glows through his whole face. His hand slides off Montgomery’s face and down to cup Montgomery’s neck. They continue to look at each other a minute. Montgomery wonders in the silence if Sam is going to kiss him, and he’s drunk enough that he probably wouldn’t care if Sam did. Staring into each other’s eyes this long is almost more intimate than a kiss.

  “I think I’m drunk,” Montgomery says, all of his physical awareness focused into Sam’s hand on his neck.

  Sam huffs a laugh and drops his hand, picking up the whiskey bottle between them and holding it up. It’s a little more than half-empty. “You think?” He slides the bottle away from them on the rug, and it stops just under the coffee table.

  Montgomery sinks the rest of the way down, lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. He rubs at his forehead, shading his eyes. The light of the fire blankets the length of his body, up to the collar of his flannel shirt. “What time is it?” he says.

  Sam checks his watch, taking longer than usual to decipher it. “Almost one.”

  Montgomery breathes out through his nose, in tired resignation. “Guess I’ll stay on your couch tonight if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re always welcome,” says Sam, still up on his elbow and looking down at Montgomery.

  For a while, Montgomery stares at the ceiling, and neither of them speak, the gentle crackling of the fire the only sound in the house. His eyes slide over to Sam eventually. Maybe it’s the way Sam’s looking at him or maybe it’s the whiskey—but a thick, warm burst of affection expands in his chest like raw cotton fresh out of the dryer. It isn’t nostalgia this time. It’s for no one else but Sam.

  Sam lies down on the rug next to him, and they look at each other, heads turned left and right.

  Montgomery swallows, his mouth dry and his mind slow. “You ever miss having someone in your bed?” he says, his voice almost too quiet. “Just to hold onto ‘n wake up with? Someone who makes you feel less alone in the world?”

  Sam pauses before he nods.

  Montgomery doesn’t move or speak again, just keeps his eyes on Sam.

  A minute passes, and Sam rolls onto his side toward Montgomery, reaching out for him. Montgomery turns to him, hugs Sam one-armed just as Sam pulls him close. Sam, the shorter of the two, fits his head below Montgomery’s and against his chest. He holds onto Montgomery’s waist, and Montgomery keeps his arm wrapped around Sam’s back. All the tension he didn’t know was there melts out of Montgomery’s body, and he goes boneless on the rug, the scent of Sam’s hair filling his nose as he passes out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The birds wake Sam up, singing in the early morning. It takes him a minute to remember where he is and how he got here, lifting his head up off the shag rug and looking around a little through half-open eyes. The room is dim with only the weak, gray light falling through the front window. The fire has long since died out, leaving only blackened wood and ash in the fireplace. He thinks he can feel cold air from outside seeping in through the open flue, but he’s warm in yesterday’s clothes, pressed up against Montgomery’s broad back. They’re lying on their sides facing the back of the room. Sam has his arm wrapped around the other man’s chest and his knee in between Montgomery’s. He looks at the back of Montgomery’s head in silence, waiting to see if he stirs. He can’t believe they spent the night sleeping together, cuddling. He eyes the bottle of Maker’s 46 under the coffee table behind them.

  Sam lies down again and carefully hooks his arm around Montgomery’s waist, resting his face against the soft flannel covering Montgomery’s back. It’s been a long time since he and another man held each other, and there have been plenty of women since then. Holding Montgomery isn’t anything like holding a woman. Sam thinks about Lauren Baker and the last time they had sex. She isn’t the cuddly type, but what few times he’s spooned up behind her after they screwed, she felt about the same as every other lover he’s had. Smooth skin, smaller frame than his own, body soft and round, long hair that he could lace his fingers into, the smell of her subtle and feminine. Despite Sam having a stockier build, Montgomery’s bigger than Sam, taller, his shoulders wider, his arms stronger. Sam can feel the muscles through Montgomery’s shirt, built through physical labor outside of a gym. The lines of his body are straighter, more angular than a woman’s, and he’s more solid, heavier and harder. It isn’t arousing to Sam, the way holding Lauren or some other beautiful woman would be. This doesn’t feel sexual, cuddling with Montgomery. It feels intimate, comforting.

  Sam closes his eyes. He can smell the muskiness of Montgomery’s skin mixed with a clean, plain soap and cigarette smoke in his clothes. He feels the breath moving through Montgomery’s body, slow and shallow. He doesn’t hear anything except the birds outside.

  When he wakes again, he’s alone on the rug, covered in the blanket that he keeps folded on one of the sofas. He sits up, checks his watch, and looks around. He starts to feel disappointed when it seems that Montgomery left, but before he can get on his feet, Sam hears the boot heels on the kitchen floor.

  Montgomery comes back to him with a mug in each hand. He offers one to Sam. Coffee.

  “Thanks,” Sam says, smiling. He doesn’t look at Montgomery directly, now a little shy and unsure if he’s supposed to pretend that they didn’t sleep through the night cuddled up. He takes a preliminary sip to test the coffee’s temperature. Montgomery gave it to him black with what tastes like a teaspoon of sugar. Sam usually drinks it with cream.

  Montgomery stands back and drinks from his own mug, looking down at Sam with the same cool demeanor he always has when he’s sober. He’s got his free hand on his hip, and, except for his untucked shirt, he doesn’t look like he spent the night on the floor.

  Sam’s quiet for a while, drinking his coffee as an excuse not to speak. He hopes Montgomery will say something first, but when he doesn’t, Sam decides to pick neutral ground. “You feel like breakfast?”

  Montgomery, still watching him, pauses and sa
ys, “I could eat.”

  “We’re probably better off going someplace,” Sam says, trying to think about what he has in his kitchen.

  Montgomery sips on his coffee. “I think I can come up with something here, if you don’t mind.”

  Sam blinks at him, his mug warm against the backs of his fingers. “You want to cook?”

  Montgomery doesn’t quite smile. “If the food’s not up to your standards, you don’t have to eat it,” he says. “Promise.”

  Sam sits at the kitchen table while Montgomery cooks, quiet as he ponders what to say. He finishes his coffee and looks at Montgomery’s back, which stays turned to him for most of the forty-five minutes it takes to make breakfast. Montgomery doesn’t say a word either during that time. Sam finds the silence between them comforting instead of awkward, something about the atmosphere of the house now on this Sunday morning with just the two of them together. He starts thinking about what it’d be like if this happened more often, if Montgomery lived with him, if they shared a bed every night and started every day together like this in the kitchen, if Sam knew that he’d have a friend to come home to after work every evening.

  He tenses as he catches himself, goes to drink more coffee to calm his nerves but his mug’s empty.

  Montgomery sets the two plates of food on the table and brings the coffee pot over from the counter. He sits across from Sam and sips at his own mug. Sam pours himself a refill, not looking at Montgomery now.

  Breakfast is scrambled eggs with cheese, diced potatoes roasted brown, and biscuits from a can with butter. Nothing fancy but it tastes good. The two men eat in silence until they’re both about halfway done.

  “Listen,” Montgomery says, looking up at Sam with his clear, dark eyes. “Last night was all right, but I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I don’t know how much you understood ‘bout what I was trying to say…”

  He pauses, and Sam watches him, taken off guard by the sting of disappointment he feels, thinking he’s about to get rejected. He’s still not sure what he wants beyond some kind of closeness, but it sounds like Montgomery’s about to turn him down anyhow.

  “I know you said you don’t want to have sex with men,” Montgomery continues. “But if you’re looking for a boyfriend… That’s not something I can be. It’s not something I can do. But I like being friends with you, Sam. I hope that makes sense.”

  Sam pauses and swallows, his mouth dry and his hands clammy. “I like being friends with you, too,” he says, then tries to smile. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  He peers down into his mug, both his hands around the base now. He takes a breath, feels Montgomery’s eyes on him, and looks back up.

  “It was nice, spending the night with you.”

  Montgomery doesn’t answer right away. “Yeah?” he says.

  Sam nods. “This is, too. Breakfast.”

  Montgomery doesn’t reply, and after a quiet moment, he goes back to his food.

  Sam follows his lead, but he wants to know if Montgomery agrees with him. He’s afraid to hear “no,” so he keeps his mouth shut.

  Montgomery pours himself a little more coffee and says, without looking at Sam, “If you ever want to do this again some time, on a weekend, all you gotta do is ask.”

  Sam can’t help but freeze and stare at him, unsure if he heard right.

  Montgomery sips his coffee, glances at Sam, and resumes eating.

  Sam decides not to reply.

  When their plates are clear, Sam rinses them in the sink and puts them in the dishwasher, while Montgomery steps out to smoke. Sam picks one his jackets from the coat rack by the front door and puts it on before going out to join him.

  The birds are quiet now, the sky a little brighter. Montgomery leans against one of the porch columns at the top of the steps, cigarette in his lips and coffee mug in one hand. Sam comes up alongside him and they look out at the neighborhood together. It’s chilly, but Montgomery doesn’t seem uncomfortable without the jacket he left inside.

  “So,” Sam says, calmer now that he’s out of the kitchen. “You coming to Thanksgiving?”

  Montgomery takes the cigarette from his lips and brings his mug up to drink. “Maybe,” he says.

  They stand there together until the cigarette’s smoked down to the filter and the coffee’s lukewarm at the bottom of the mug.

  ~~*

  Monday morning, Montgomery drives out to Dewey-Humboldt with his gun on the bench seat next to him. He takes the same route he took once before, through the town proper and east into the rural outskirts of scattered homes and loner RVs. This time, he goes straight down the long dirt driveway and parks in front of the Airstream, gets out of his truck and notes the other one there, knocks on the camper door and waits.

  Joel Troutman answers in his boxer shorts with a knife in his hand.

  Montgomery’s got his gun at his hip, pointed at Troutman’s belly. His first cigarette of the day’s still hanging from his lips, and he talks around it. “Howdy,” he says.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Troutman says, the look of small prey in his eyes.

  “Why don’t you take a step back and let me in. We’ll talk.”

  Troutman hesitates but only for a moment. In that moment, Montgomery figures this could go either way—smooth or bloody—depending on how wound up Troutman is. The gun Troutman brought to the diner must be here somewhere, unless it’s in his truck. Even if Troutman only has that knife, Montgomery’s aware of the risk of cornering him inside the Airstream. He’s worked with animals long enough to know that the more confined they feel, the more skittish they are when approached and the more harm they can do to a man. But he doesn’t want to make it easy for Troutman to run or be seen here with him, on the off chance that somebody else stops by before Montgomery leaves.

  Troutman retreats into the camper, and Montgomery follows him inside, leading with his gun and shutting the door behind him.

  Troutman sits on the couch, holding the knife in his fist on his knee, and Montgomery stays on his feet just before the door.

  “Who are you?” Troutman asks again. “What do you want?”

  Montgomery’s eyes roam around the interior, before settling on Troutman. “You don’t remember?”

  Troutman stares at him for thirty seconds before the agitation in his face melts into surprise. “Holy shit. You’re the guy from the diner. The one who killed Ed!” He jumps to his feet but doesn’t advance toward Montgomery.

  Montgomery blinks at him, his gun down at his thigh now but his finger still curled around the trigger. “I wouldn’t get too excited,” he says. “I killed Ed, and I’m not above killing you if I have to.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Troutman says, a touch of fear in his widened eyes. He doesn’t move. “You murdering son of a bitch.”

  “Sit.”

  After a pause, Troutman sinks back down onto the couch.

  Montgomery stands with the door at his back and watches Troutman, sizes him up proper and determines that he isn’t looking at much. “Let’s get something clear,” he says. “Your buddy Ed got his own dumb ass shot because he was a hothead about to kill a sheriff’s deputy. That’s not what the two of you came to do that night in the diner, but he was fixing to do it. Fixing to kill an unarmed man of the law just because he could. That’s the kinda person Ed was, but I don’t reckon that’s the kind you are.”

  Troutman stares at him with a sheen of sweat on his face, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the dimness. He doesn’t reply.

  “I know about your wife,” Montgomery tells him. “Your boy. I know about Donna, too. I know those women ain’t heard from you since the robbery. Here you are, holed up in the middle of nowhere, stalling. You’re scared. You don’t want to leave your family, but you know if you stay, you’re going to get caught. You have been caught, Joel. Sheriff’s Department knows where you are. They’re coming for you. Soon. They got your plate numbers; they know what you drive.”


  Montgomery’s speaking softer now, the way he might talk to a cow just before he kills it. The weight of the gun in his hand feels good. Heavy and warm.

  “Best thing you can do is turn yourself in.”

  Troutman scowls at him, like the suggestion’s insulting.

  “You turn yourself in now, I might just give a statement saying you didn’t want Ed to kill that sheriff’s deputy,” Montgomery says. “That’ll help you when it comes to the length of your sentence.”

  “Fuck you,” says Troutman, now as defiant as he is tense. “I’m not going to prison.”

  Montgomery lowers his chin, gives Troutman a hard look. “Oh, I think you are. The only thing you have left to choose is how you go.”

  “I can still take my family and leave. Go across state lines. The county sheriff’s department isn’t going to waste their time chasing me that far.”

  Montgomery shakes his head. “If you were going to do that, you’da done it by now. You ain’t got shit to offer’em, no way to protect’em, and even if you did, pretty sure Willa Rae isn’t going to go on the run with that baby for you.”

  Troutman just glares at him without replying, probably because he knows Montgomery’s right. He’s still got the knife tight in his grip, pointing up at the ceiling on his right knee. It’s a hunting knife—Montgomery’s familiar with the type—and it must be sharp enough to skin.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you, Joel, that I could ride with you to the sheriff’s station in Prescott with this gun pointed at you the whole way. I don’t think you want that, and neither do I. But I’ll do what I have to, if you’re going to be difficult.”

  “What do you care if I turn myself in?” Troutman says. “You said the cops know where I am. They’re coming for me. So why the hell would you show up, trying to force me to go to them, giving me a heads up about them coming while you’re at it?”