Jamie
Mr. Tall came to a halt, the horse’s hooves kicking up a little dust. His face was half shaded by the brim of his hat, and beneath that brim, two steel-blue eyes glared at Jamie.
“Did Eddy Piggot send you?” asked Mr. Tall, though by the grim line of his mouth it was easy to see he already knew the answer.
“Who?” asked Jamie as his mind chased visions of people he’d talked to that day. The Greyhound bus driver, the lady at the bodega—
“The idiot who owns the Rusty Nail,” said Mr. Tall. “You’re the third drifter he’s sent us this week.”
“I’m not a drifter,” said Jamie, even as memories of all the places he’d slept in the last year danced in front of him. “Sure, I’mdrifting, but I’m not a drifter. I’m just looking for a job, is all. I saw your website and thought you were a cattle ranch—”
“Look,” said Mr. Tall as he leaned forward in the saddle, looming over Jamie just like he knew he was a barrier to all of Jamie’s hopes and dreams. “This is a dude ranch, not a cattle ranch. It’s a nice place for decent people to come and take a break from their busy lives. Either way—” The man paused to look Jamie up and down. “Either way, I doubt you have any experience with any of that.”
“I’m decent,” said Jamie, blinking his eyes against the sting of the words. Heat rose in his chest. “And I’m not looking for a handout. I’m looking for work.”
“It’s fine by me you’re looking,” said Mr. Tall, though it was easy to see it wasn’t fine. “But you can’t just march in here like this. We go through the Templeton Agency in Chugwater. You can apply there. If you’re qualified, they can find you something.”
“Chugwater?” Jamie asked. How was he going to make this work, heading there and back again? On the heels of that, after his experience at the meat packing plant, why on earth would he want to work someplace with a guy like this, who was glaring at him extra hard with a mouth that curled up at one edge like he was stopping himself from saying something even more scathing? “How far is that? Is there someone I should ask for, once I get there?”
“It’s thirty miles or so,” said Mr. Tall. “But it’s Saturday, so they’re closed today and tomorrow.”
Mr. Tall appraised him from the back of his horse. When he clicked to the horse to move closer, it was all Jamie could do not to take a step back. He could smell the leather of the saddle, horse sweat and dust, and a bit of the man himself, and maybe the soap he’d used that morning. At eye level were those thighs, muscled and long, pressing against the horse’s sides, controlling it perfectly.
“I get that,” Jamie said. He put on his best smile, looking up at Mr. Tall, squinting, trying to catch his eye, trying to figure out what he could say to make this work. “Sure, it’s the weekend and all. But maybe you’ve got some work that needs doing today? You could pay me a couple of bucks and a meal? Maybe a place to sleep? What do you say?”
“Pay you in food and lodging?” The question rose in the air as Mr. Tall tipped back his hat and appraised Jamie all over again. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”
Biting his lower lip, Jamie registered Mr. Tall’s casual dismissal. There was no getting Mr. Tall to change his mind, and no getting around the fact that he now had to march back into town without a place to sleep or a job to earn money so he could eat. He was so tired. Coming up against such a definite nope was the last straw, though he probably shouldn’t have been surprised. He knew he looked like he’d just stepped out of a trash can like some walking, talking Oscar the Grouch.
He wasn’t going to keep drifting. Or at least he hoped not. All he needed was a chance, though it looked like he’d come to the ends of the earth for nothing.
“So,” said Mr. Tall. He had one hand on the saddle horn and with the other, he waved in the direction of the small glade, beyond which was the road back into town.
“Yeah, okay,” said Jamie, keeping his frustration out of his voice as he swatted a fly out of his face and turned on his heels to start walking down that dirt road.
In his mind, he measured the distance. Half a mile to the gate. Another mile in the heat of the long afternoon, to the town. There, he’d try to find a motel room, if there even was a motel, something with a shower. Grab a hot meal and then figure out what he needed to do in the morning.
Maybe hewouldgo to Chugwater and go through proper channels to apply for a job, maybe even at the ranch. Though he’d not the faintest idea what that job would be, and he certainly wasn’t qualified, he was willing to do anything they asked of him if they just gave him a chance.
Wouldn’t it be funny if he got the job? Not to mention if he was on the ranch, he could grab another eyeful of those long legs. Even if Mr. Tall was straight, which he probably was, those legs would be bonus enough for Jamie.
He shouldn’t be thinking like that, not at all. Telling his mom and dad he was gay had probably led to their divorce and certainly was the reason behind neither wanting him to live with them. But even though he’d known he’d liked other boys, and had attempted to go on dates with a few guys at the community college, his his love life always seemed to arrive at a dead end. With these ideas hanging over him like a sad weight, he started walking, not even turning his head when Mr. Tall shouted out to him.
“Don’t forget to close the gate behind you as you leave.”
Yeah, sure. He wouldn’t forget, and couldn’t wait to put this place behind him. Chugwater it was because even if he didn’t apply for a job on the ranch, maybe they’d have something else going. He could always hope.
4
Leland
Pulling Gwen’s reins, Leland settled the horse as he watched the drifter walk away, heading into the glade with an insouciant walk that seemed to evidence youthful years of defying authority and skirting the rules. It wasn’t that Leland was against free will or young people piercing their nipples or whatever they wanted to do, but they needed to do it with style.
It was obvious the stains on the drifter’s shirt had not been done with style, they’d been done with negligence and a hurried decision to walk and eat at the same time. His dark hair had been a long, curly mess over his eyes, and by the looks of him, the bruise on his cheek, he’d been in a brawl of some kind.
The pained way he’d hefted his green canvas duffle bag and the stiff way he’d stood there, panting, as though he’d not had water to drink in a good long time, spoke of even more neglect, probably self-imposed. Had the drifter been an employee of the ranch, or a guest, or a horse or any of those under his care, Leland would have pulled the young man aside, found out what he’d needed, given it to him, and then made sure he had work to do to earn his keep.
There was nothing wrong with hard work, and nothing wrong with traveling a great distance to get it. But he was frustrated with Eddy Piggot, so his reaction had been strong and his dismissal quick. Both of which now seemed out of proportion to the simple request for a job.
