“The taller one? With the chestnut hair like he’s out of a magazine?” Clay pointed with his glass of beer.
“Yeah?”
“Nope.” Clay shook his head. “I don’t know what his deal is, but he never goes home with anybody. He’s a nice guy, but kind of a loner.”
“And the other one?”
The conversation wasn’t quite on the verge of him pimping out his friends, but it was awfully close.
Mr. Truck Driver might be fun for a quickie, and sometimes Brody was up for that, the way he sometimes told it. But sometimes Brody was like a skittish mare whose previous owners had been cruel.
Clay didn’t know all of Brody’s story, only that he’d been a trick rider, a trick roper, on the circuit from the age of five. And that, though he would put on a show for guests at Leland’s urging, he never really talked about it, never seemed to want to brag about how good he was, and he was mighty good.
“I think you’re more my style, my speed, than his,” said Clay. “You get me?”
“I get you.” Mr. Truck Driver flashed Clay a bright smile, and with a jerk of his chin, moved toward the crowd around the bar, on the prowl, like a denim-jacketed wolf. “Well, thanks anyway. Enjoy your beer.”
Which left Clay with a half-drunk beer in his hand and his ass absolutely un-fucked. But if he wasn’t gonna go with Mr. Truck Driver, then why the heck was he at the bar?
Mr. Truck Driver had been exactly what Clay always looked for. Exactly the type he liked to go with, the type he liked to do the shimmy-shimmy with in back alleys. And while it was likely, if he stood up straight and looked around and showed his dimples, that he’d get another offer, just exactly what was it he’d been thinking about, turning this one down?
Only, he knew the answer to that without having to spell it out to himself. Here Clay was in the Stampede Saloon, a nice place with a pretty decent band, a cold beer in his hand. He’d just been left on his own at the bar and didn’t actually straighten up or smile. And that was because thoughts of Austin, all alone in his room, kept pulling at him. He could so easily imagine Austin digging through his room for his painting stuff because he was going to try living a secret dream of his, only to find out that the paints had dried and now he’d have to order new ones from Amazon.
Clay could just see the sorrowful face Austin would make as he looked at his dried out paint box, his expression quite still, eyes grave, green like ancient moss. And from what Clay had noticed about Austin, he’d just take his disappointment and absorb it. Maybe he’d not even order those new paints, maybe he’d just settle into his ranch life with no speck of creativity.
Well, if Austin had told him to be good to himself, then he needed to make sure Austin was good to himself, too.
Clay pulled out his phone and, holding it close to his chest, brought up Amazon and searched for paint boxes. Amazon displayed a long list, showing all sizes, all prices.
He didn’t really know what kind of paint Austin used, come to think of it, and Amazon was showing him oil paints, and acrylic, and watercolor, and something called gouache. To be funny, he found the most enormous, most expensive one, didn’t matter what kind of paint. The box was made of wood, and it had tubes of paint, an easel, along with paper and about a dozen paint brushes.
Copying the link, he pasted it into a text message and wrote:Found your new paint set! Arriving in two days! Have fun!
Within two seconds, he got his response:I hope you’re kidding.
Clay laughed while texted:Heh, then added a bunch of smiling faces, including a poop emoji, just to be amusing.Just get the paint, he texted, and scrolled and scrolled till he found the right icon, a tiny little artist’s palette complete with circles of color.
It was the most fun he’d ever had at a bar, which said a lot right there.
15
Austin
Halfway through Monday morning, Austin was in Leland’s office, going over notes he’d made about bank balances and what he’d found in a box of scribbled information on the backs of envelopes. Bill Wainwright did handshake deals, Maddy had told him, and not all the love or money in the world would make him get a receipt. The most he would do was leave a note with Maddy that hay, alfalfa, or straw was on its way and could she schedule somebody to unload it all?
“I’m afraid you’re not going to change Bill,” said Leland, with a solemn shake of his head. “It’s his ranch, after all.”
“Look, I get that part,” said Austin, struggling to balance good accounting practices against the fact that this was a living, breathing business, and not just a cold corporation in a high-rise in downtown Denver. “And I appreciate that he sometimes leaves those notes for Maddy, but what needs to happen when the deliveries arrive is that they need to be recorded. Not only will it fix the problem of the fact that, somehow, somewhere, someone is overcharging Bill, it will help streamline future orders. If you know how much hay you ordered in June, for example, this year, then next year, you have an estimate to start with. Do you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Leland slowly as he sat back in his office chair, probably doing his best to look like he didn’t long to be in the fresh open air, on horseback, or directing one of his ranch hands. Anywhere but where he was, which was with Austin telling him that Bill Wainwright needed to do a better job of tracking his spending.
A fresh breeze came in through the open double doors of the barn, swirling around the open door to Leland’s office. All around him Austin could smell straw and horse sweat and leather oil, and all the scents that marked the space as a barn. Beyond those open doors, a blue sky beckoned, like a patient mistress.
He’d not realized before how much time he used to spend indoors when he’d been married to Mona. Now, being out in the open so much, walking from Maddy’s office to Leland’s office and then back and forth from his room in the staff quarters to the dining hall, the contrast was stark. He could never go back to a cubicle or even an office after this job, and his hope was that he never would have to.
“Hey, Jamie.” Leland stood up, moving forward on his toes, and Austin turned to see Jamie come through the door, bright eyed, full of energy, his eyes focused on Leland, though his face was serious as though he had news to tell. “Either of you want a root beer?”
“No thanks,” said Austin, never having been fond of soft drinks.
