But what happened next was a mix of things, some so good, he could hardly believe them. Of course, he’d bottomed out, the way his dad would have done, by crawling into a bottle with the intention of never coming out. Anyone else, and he would have made it to the finish line. Anyone else and they would have stepped up with nary a qualm into a life of clean sheets, and decent people, of Tuesday night line dances under the stars, and chuck wagon dinners around a campfire, and long, long, long trail rides, both with cattle and without.
It turned out Marston was a natural on the back of a horse, was the right balance of calm and attentive while working with them, took to it like he’d been raised to it, or so Leland had told him a time or two.
In the barn, his muscles and height were very much appreciated, his ability to repair wood and metal alike, second to none. And on trail rides, the very newest, most anxious city slickers were pointed out to him so he could keep an eye on them so he could instruct and guide and soothe, as needed.
He danced that summer, but could never make friends. Sat at a communal table in the dining hall with all the other cowboys and wranglers and ranch hands and blacksmiths, but could never think of a thing to say. His life had been made up of near-silence up to that point, so it was hard to change that, hard to join in and be friendly.
Gabe got swallowed into the crowd, it seemed, but that was Gabe, and Marston couldn’t fault him for being easy going, easy to be with, in those circumstances. Couldn’t fault him for being included when Marston was not.
Gabe deserved the good life at the guest ranch, and whatever Marston could get out of it, even if it felt like he was a beggar at a banquet, was better than anything he’d ever experienced in his entire life and then some.
The fact that Leland had been insistent on Marston being a team lead for Leland’s new pet project still stirred up confusion in Marston’s mind. Leland’s will was absolute, though, so Marston had been unable to resist. Now here he was, in another high-dollar place, living the good life. He had everything he’d never dreamed of, and though he was a little lonely most of the time, he was grateful.
Grateful enough to take Kell under his wing for an evening so he could take a shower without succumbing to the rabbity scared look that Marston had clearly seen on his face.
Marston had never been as scared as Kell seemed to be, but then he’d only endured years of ho-hum foster care after a haphazard ten years under his parent’s care.
Nothing truly bad had ever happened to him, and he’d managed to survive to the ripe old age of thirty-two, his limbs intact, his wits about him, a cushy summer ahead of him.
Chapter9
Marston
By the time Kell came out of the shower, Marston was just finishing up his shave, which made it the fastest shower on record. Not to mention Kell had dressed hurriedly, as evidenced by the fact that his hair dripped water on his neck, and splotches of dampness made his t-shirt stick to places on his chest. His thin chest, it was easy to see, all angles and bones. In fact, he was whip-lean all over.
“You’re as skinny as a cricket,” said Marston, unable to stop himself as he wiped his chin and jaw with the edge of his towel.
Kell was looking at him, up and down, as if judging how dangerous Marston was. In any other place, Marston would have turned his back, because it was none of his business what anybody thought of him, a reaction he’d honed over the years of being judged and found wanting. Now, though, under the weight of those glistening green eyes, Marston tried a different tack.
“But, you know,” he said quite casually, even slumping a bit to lean against the sink. “Get a few more hot meals in your belly, a full night’s sleep every night, and all this fresh air? You’ll fill out in no time.”
All of this was an echo of what a counselor at one of the children’s homes he’d been assigned to one month in summertime had said to him. An idea of a life he’d never lived, but that, judging by the gleam in the counselor’s eyes, was good and necessary and right.
He’d held onto that idea for as long as he could, abandoning it years ago, at least until he’d arrived at the ranch the year before, at the beginning of the season. Now that he knew it was possible, maybe it was time to plant that seed in someone else’s heart.
“This is a good place, Kell,” said Marston, now quite firm. He folded his towel and tucked his things back into his somewhat ratty shaving kit. “And it sure isn’t prison. It’s not like being on the road, either.”
He didn’t know why he added that last bit, but his mind kept flashing images of it, of being always on the move, scrounging for every dollar, breaking down in the middle of nowhere and having to hoof it ten miles back up the road to the nearest garage because he simply wasn’t hitchhiking material.
“Grab your towel and dry off a bit more,” he said now. “We’ll drop off our things and get our jackets before heading to the campfire. Sound good?”
“Okay,” said Kell.
Kell followed him through the dark woods until they reached Kell’s tent. There, Kell slipped out of his wet t-shirt and slid on a dry shirt, then scrambled to find his jacket.
The tent, or at least what Marston presumed was Kell’s half of it, was a mess, the clothes all jumbled and half hanging out of two cardboard boxes, socks and scraps of paper on the wooden floor. In pride of place on the little white shelf was the red Swiss Army knife and absolutely nothing else.
Should he say anything? Kell wasn’t on his team, wasn’t really his responsibility. Or should he mention something to Gabe? Well, tomorrow was soon enough to decide about that. In the meantime, Kell had been working hard and somehow had managed not to make his way to the highlight of a great many days: the evening’s campfire and s’more making.
They stopped at Marston’s tent so he could drop off his things and grab his jacket, and as he slipped it on and just before he flicked off the overhead light, he saw Kell standing on the wooden platform just outside the tent flap, watching him. Not as if he’d never seen a man put on a sherpa-lined denim jacket before, no. But just watching, absorbing the moment. Storing it away for later.
As to why he’d thought it, he had no idea, but it warmed him inside, in some way that he wasn’t quite used to. Having company for an ordinary moment, the kind of moment he’d always spent alone.
He led the way through the woods, along a mostly unused path that went along a line of densely packed pine trees, through which absolutely no light showed. But as they went around the trees and into the clearing, the light from the bonfire blazed up like a pot of flickering gold had suddenly appeared.
Around the campfire was everybody in the valley, some in the Adirondack chairs, legs stretched, eyes relaxed, glazed, staring at the fire. Others stood around, chatting, and one, Marston realized, was Royce, arranging the makings for s’mores.
“Hey,” said Gabe, waving them over, as if their presence wasn’t a complete and utter surprise.
