by Peter Styles
The home looked to be made up of only two or three small rooms. The one I was in doubled, I guess, as a bedroom and living room, his smallish bed shoved up in the corner while the wall near the door had a couch fit enough for having a bit of company. The kitchen was tiny and right around the wall, and when I spotted a little doorway, I guessed it was the bathroom.
Instead of a television set, he had a fireplace set up in the corner, flames licking at the logs behind the glass window.
“Sorry, there’s not much in the way of seating,” James said. He plopped down on the edge of his bed, the springs squeaking a little. “Not used to having many guests out this way. Hope you don’t mind close quarters.”
I wasn’t the biggest fan of small spaces, even before I was convicted, and definitely not after I was let out. This place didn’t bother me so much, though. It was homier, despite being pretty bare. “No, it’s nice,” I told him, which was a true compliment. Not that I knew much about interior design. With a sideways grin, I added, “Kind of reminds me of my cell.”
“That’s right, that’s right.” James made a face, laughing a little. He took a drink. “How’ve you been adjusting since you got back?”
Got back instead of got out. It was a nice way of putting it. A return home to where I belonged, instead of an escape.
“Getting there.” I shrugged one shoulder and welcomed myself to sitting on the sofa opposite him. It was comfier than it looked. “I was only in there three years, but… you’d be surprised how much you forget about being a normal person with a normal life.”
“I can’t imagine, man.”
“Yeah. Little things you take for granted.” I grinned suddenly. I wasn’t exactly here for a therapy session; I appreciated him asking, though. Most people, myself included, liked to steer clear of the topic. “I’m doing all right. So far.”
“Well, just give it time,” James said. “Soon, this place will get you as crazy as the rest of us.”
It got a good laugh out of both of us. I took a sip.
“Now that you mention it,” I began, arms crossing loosely. “What’s the deal with this place? I mean… it seems pretty all right to me, but it’s been struggling? So says my nephew, anyway.”
And Quinn. I skipped over that detail.
James nodded slowly. “Yup, you’d think that. To the untrained eye, this place seems like it’s holding up. All right, you look at it this way.” He sat himself up a little straighter. “We got about fifteen people working on this ranch, right? We ought to have double that. Thirty, at least. With as many head of cattle we have, and the hayfields. There’s a lot of work to deal out.”
I nursed my drink. As the unofficial assistant manager, he knew what he was talking about, I trusted, and it gave me a glimpse into the real state of the farm—whatever things Quinn hadn’t told me about.
“We oughta be replacing some of that busted-ass equipment that’s already fifty years old, rather than… I don’t know, trying to salvage them with whatever parts we can find to keep it working, but there’s no money for it. It’s all dried up.”
I frowned a little. I hadn’t lived here all my life like some people, like he had. “This place has such a reputation in Worthington, though,” I said. “It wasn’t always like this.”
“No, it wasn’t.” James glanced over at the fire. “I’ve been working for this place—for this family—for a lot of my life. Since before Quinn.” He grinned, like he was looking at a good memory in an old picture. “I worked for his mama and pop, and before that, got started when it was his grandaddy running the place.”
“Shit. You don’t look that old.”
“Nah, I was just a kid back then.” James looked at me then, smile all tender. “You should’ve seen this place; you wouldn’t even recognize it. The Dyers made hand over foot every year, but one bad year of fungus did a number on the hayfields.” He ran his thumb over the bottle’s label, scraping at it with his finger, maybe a habit. “After that, there was a dry spell, all season, so we had to sell off some of the cattle we couldn’t feed—wouldn’t have been right to keep them here. So, we try to recover, right?”
I nodded.
He chuckled, but it wasn’t because the situation was funny. It was the kind of amusement that came at the expense of a really bad joke. “Couple years later, we end up with a sick bull. He spread the infection to the rest of the herd that season.”
I blew out a breath, shaking my head, remembering Quinn’s voice: It’s been a tough few years. Seemed like a kind understatement to me.
“Shit….”
“Yup.” James groaned a little as he stretched, rolled his shoulders. Something in them cracked. “It’s been one thing after another with this place. Just a constant round of bad luck.”
“Yeah.”
Thinking about it, knowing the full scope of the situation, made me feel a little guilty, but wholly appreciative, for being here.
“He’s really doing me a favor, then, huh?” I asked, shaking my head a little, clarifying, “Quinn, I mean.”
James thought about it. He was looking at me a little thoughtfully. I took a sip to give myself something to do. His lips spread into a smile.
“Yeah, I guess he is, huh?”
“I’m not gonna let him regret bringing me on,” I said. Not that he had a reason to. It just felt important to say. “I’ll be helpful however I can.”
“He’s a good kid,” James said. “Got as big a heart as his grandpa does. He’s just better at hiding it, I think.”
I thought of the man I had met today. A little fiery and confident. I tried not to think about what had happened between us; if I did, I’d embarrass myself in front of James sitting like we were. “He seems like a good person.”
James laughed suddenly, standing with his empty bottle. As he moved towards the kitchen, he patted me square on the shoulder. “Don’t get too keen on him just yet, partner. He’s only paying you half of what most new hands get paid.”
I had to laugh at that. “Forget I said anything, then.”
Still, half-pay was better than no pay.
“We all took pay cuts,” he said from the kitchen, and when he returned, it was with another two bottles, wet and cold, straight out of the cooler. He offered me one.
“Yeah?”
“Yup. But,” and he cracked the top off his bottle with ease before tossing the cap into a little bucket in the corner. “We’re bringing in this consulting fella. Apparently, he’s supposed to be real good at what he does. Says he can turn Dyers’ around, or whatever it is guys like him do. So….” He tipped his beer towards me. “Consider your employment an investment.”
I held up my beer, the bottles meeting with a little clink.
“Trust me,” I told him. “I do.”
We both took a long sip; a toast to the future.
I sighed, and grinned over at the fire. Its light was bright and orange and warm. I could have fallen asleep watching embers pop from inside the wood. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go anyway.”
James hollered a little. “You wanna keep the enthusiasm down, Oliver? It’s a little much.” After a good laugh, he pulled himself off his mattress again, licking his lips a little. “I’m feeling a little hungry. Think I got some leftovers in here somewhere we can put out….”
I sat back against the couch, listening to James fumble around in his fridge and talk to himself. I’d stay here at Dyer as long as they’d have me: it was money enough, and the people seemed kind. Somewhere was better than nowhere.
And, shit, if Quinn didn’t blow my mind.
I took a swig, pushing off the conflicting feelings that moment brought me when I lingered on it too long.
His mouth wasn’t the only reason I was sticking around, of course. But it didn’t exactly run me off, either…
6
Quinn
“You got an eye on those, Mama?” I asked, looking over her shoulder at the dozen or so flapjacks lined on skillets over the stove. �
��Don’t want them to burn—”
“Quinn Dyer, if you try to backseat cook one more time….”
Her voice was stern, but when she pinched at my cheek, it was affectionate. I laughed and pushed her hand away gently, moving on to setting the table. All the seats would be filled this morning.With Mama feeling up to it, we decided to put on a big breakfast for the hands who wanted something to start the day outside of their usual hash browns and black coffee.
Most of them had already shown up, eager when they heard it would be Tilly at the helm this morning. My mama’s flapjacks were legendary, and one of our hands had gone out of their way that very morning, bright and early, to pick up two jugs of syrup.
Halfway into cutting up what fruit we had, mostly oranges and apples from the grocery store, the back door swung open. The hands that hung around at the table or helped with some of the cooking greeted whoever it was who’d come in. I glanced over my shoulder: James and his morning personality, and Oliver, looking a little tired and wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday.
It didn’t take a genius to figure Oliver had slept over after visiting James last night. What did one beer turn into?
Oliver’s eyes met mine. I nodded once at him—it’d be stupid to ignore him—before turning back to my work. A little flicker of jealousy licked at my stomach.
Maybe James was more Oliver’s type?
Sure, he had said he wasn’t gay, but that was, like, a minute after coming in my mouth. Stranger things had happened. Maybe he was just trying to let me down gently, and it was really James he could find himself feeling attracted to. The thought wasn’t totally wild; Oliver was beyond hot, and James was pansexual; more accurately, he’d fuck anything with a pulse that could bend over far enough.
Just what had happened in that little cabin last night?
Doesn’t matter, I reminded myself, heaping the fruit onto the table.
Oliver had said he wasn’t interested, whether that meant in me or in men was immaterial.
“Breakfast is served,” Mama said, setting down a heavy plate loaded with flapjacks, shaking a little bit before she sat at the head of the table.
Men and women moved around with their plates and cups of coffee or water. I brushed past Oliver. Our eyes met for a passing moment. Heat spread in my stomach at the memory of yesterday—of what his face had looked like when I flicked my tongue—
Oh my god, stop being so thirsty, it’s only seven in the morning.
Everyone sat at the table and chomped on bacon and made animated conversation. It felt like a big, happy family meal, and in a way it was. I shared a smile with my mama. We hadn’t done something like this in a long time.
“And who might this tall drink of water be?” asked one woman, pointing to Oliver with her syrupy fork.
“Right,” I hummed, locking eyes with James. “We were too busy showin’ off the place, we forgot to introduce him to everyone.”
The table laughed. Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, like he was bashful to have the attention turned on him.
“Well,” James began, clapping Oliver on the shoulder, “this here’s Oliver Suarez, the newest edition to Dyer Ranch. Just started yesterday, so I’m sure he’s a bit sore.”
It got a good chuckle, especially when Oliver nodded, confirming it was true.
We went around the table, everyone introducing themselves properly, and what they did on the farm. There weren’t many of us at this point, I thought, as they sounded off: Jones, Louis, Pam, Greig and his cousin, Eddie, and Wren, Valerie, Terrance, and Fernando. Most of them had been with the farm for a long time, either starting their work under my mother or grandfather. Either way, I’d known most of them my whole life.
As they all got to talking, I felt Mama’s hand on my wrist, and when I looked at her, she was smiling. This was what she loved most about this place, I guessed: the way it brought people together.
“I’m gonna get myself some water,” she said, pushing up from her seat slowly.
I should have seen it on her face, should have guessed it was coming. As she stood, it took only two steps for her legs to suddenly give out from under her.
I pushed out of my seat quickly, catching her before she could hit her head on the floor.
“Mama, you’re shaking,” I said, helping her upright again. A couple other farmhands had come to her side. She made an annoyed noise, swatting us away.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little tired, that’s all. Stumbled. It happens to everyone once in a while.”
Breakfast shouldn’t have made her tired. It never had before.
James came closer, holding a hand out to her. “It’s been a morning full of excitement, Tilly. We oughta get you to bed before the doctor skins us for making you do so much so early.”
She eyeballed him, torn and irritated. She didn’t want to have to go back upstairs, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice either. With a sigh and a curt nod, she allowed herself to be helped upstairs by James.
The other hands went back to finishing off their plates slowly; there wasn’t much for them to do about the situation, anyway. I took plates as they emptied, loading them into the running sink, making conversation with each of our farmhands as they went off for the day, sure to come back again for lunch.
Wrist-deep in dishes, I turned when the last plate was brought to me.
Of course.
“Thanks, Oliver,” I said and rinsed it quickly. When he didn’t move on right away, lingering at the counter, I glanced up at him. We could be normal. He wasn’t the first farmhand I’d fooled around with, after all. “What’re you up to this time?”
“I’m….” He pointed towards the stairs. “Going to be doing more repairs with James.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, there are lots of them so I’m sure it’ll keep you plenty busy.”
“Yeah.”
I could tell he wasn’t sure where to be or what to say.
Nodding over my shoulder, I told him, “You can wait around for James. He should be back any minute.”
Oliver did just that, sitting quietly at one of the kitchen chairs. I wondered if he was watching me do the dishes, or if I was just imagining the feeling of eyes on my back.
Unable to help myself, or needing to fill the silence maybe, I asked, “How’re your legs feeling?”
“I—uh, they’re fine. The balm helped some.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. Oliver was touching along the rim of his coffee cup, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was a little color there in his cheeks.
Jesus, I thought. This doesn’t need to be weird.
“Hey,” I said, finishing off one plate and setting it on the drying rack. “About yesterday…. I’m sorry.” I picked up another plate, but set it back in the water, turning my back to the sink. He was looking at me carefully; for once, I wish I wasn’t so attracted to the strong and silent type, so he’d maybe say something back. “But look, I’m not gonna make excuses about it. You’re a good-looking man and I had an urge and I thought you were game for it. So, y’know. Sorry.”
Oliver nodded slowly.
I turned back to my dishes, grabbing blindly at the dishes under the suds. “I won’t let it happen again,” I told him.
We were going to be working together from now on; starting off on an awkward foot with the newest farmhand, let alone Nico’s uncle, wasn’t totally ideal. With an assuring grin, I looked at him one more time.
“I know when to call it quits, after all.”
Oliver lowered his mug from his lips, which looked like they were opening, about to say something, but—
“She’s all tucked in for the day, Quinn!”
James’s footsteps followed his voice, body appearing in the kitchen doorway. I turned back to the dishes slow enough to see Oliver’s mouth shut, keeping whatever he was planning on saying locked up tight. I loved James, but he had the shittiest timing. “Thanks, James. I’ll be keeping an eye on
Mama.”
He came up beside me and clapped a hand on my shoulder. We exchanged a look of sympathetic understanding. Neither of us liked seeing the untouchable Tilly Dyer like this.
“There’s gonna be lunch,” I said to Oliver, setting the last dish out to dry. I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel before gesturing for his mug. “James’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
“You’ll know ‘cause I’ll be heading back to the homestead, with or without you,” James joked in a dry voice.
Oliver chuckled and, when he passed the mug over, our fingers brushed just a touch. I pretended it wasn’t at least a little electrifying.
“Thanks for breakfast,” he said.
I set the mug in the sink and brushed past him, humming, “That’s what I do. Work hard out there today, boys. Make Mama Dyer proud,” which got a hearty reaction from James, at least. I lingered in the kitchen, watching as they both headed out the backdoor and down the porch, and from there, I couldn’t tell exactly; I only knew that they were out of the house, which was good enough for me.
I grabbed the phone off the hook on the wall, dialing quickly.
A few rings later: “Hello?”
“Nico,” I huffed, flopping down against a kitchen chair. “Does Landon have a hot brother?”
I heard him laugh on the other end of the line. “Que pasa, Quinn; what the hell are you talking about, huh?”
“Like, another one?” I asked. “Other than Noah, obviously. Wait, unless Noah and Parker are into group stuff? Are they?”
“Ah, no.” I could hear the amused smile in his voice, clear as day. “Nothing like that.”
I groaned into the phone.
“Let me guess,” he hummed. “Having tío Oliver around got you all frustrated?”
Frustrated was the understatement of the century.
“No, no, nothing like that,” I lied. There was just enough of a silence for me to cave, the lie lasting about as long as a toddler on a mechanical bull ride might. With a sigh, I settled deeper into the chair, keeping the phone close to my mouth as I muttered, “Well… I mean, there might have been a, uh… an incident.”
“Quinn.” Nico sounded exasperated. I couldn’t really blame him. “Quinn, amigo, it’s been a day. What the hell—”