Kell was. There was no need for the closeness, the rapt attention. What he needed to do was to stand away, stand down. Take a break.
“They’ve not come by with iced tea yet,” said Marston on afternoon as he forced himself to take a step back. “How ’bout I go get it for us?”
Kell laid down his chisel and hammer, carefully, the edge of the chisel away from him on the table. When he turned to smile at Marston, there was a softness to his features Marston hadn’t seen before. Little crinkles in the corners of his eyes.
“What I want is an onion sandwich,” he said, a soft, silent laugh widening his smile. “But I guess it’s too early in the day for that.”
“It’s never too early,” said Marston, his mind racing as to how he might go to the mess tent and elbow his way into the kitchen in the midst of pre-lunch preparation. “Or maybe it is. I also make a mean fried baloney sandwich.”
He did, though his belly revolted at the idea, since he’d made and eaten too many of those to really enjoy them anymore. And why was he thinking so hard about a sandwich he didn’t really want?
Because it was better than the alternative. Better than letting the sense of want hold sway. Better than ruining everything by giving in to the secret, sweet demands swirling around inside of him.
“There they are,” said Kell, looking over Marston’s shoulder. “We’re saved!”
The iced tea and cheese and crackers were a welcome distraction. As was the breaking of the belt on the jig saw the second Marston went over to it and turned it on. By the time they’d repaired the belt, Kell ever attentive at his side, they’d munched and drunk their way through the iced tea and snacks, and it was time for lunch.
After lunch, it was time for another round of horseback riding lessons given to a group of ex-cons for whom all of this was a lark. Something with no consequences, a trend he was sure they’d carried with them a good long while and would continue to do so until hell froze over or they got arrested again.
Or maybe he was, to be honest, jealous of the way they larked about during the lesson, trotting when they should be walking, trying to push each other off their saddles when he told them to turn their horses and walk the other way.
The only thing he would not abide, amidst the rough but good-natured shenanigans, was if any one of them dug their heels too hard into the horse’s sides, or flicked the ends of their reins just to get their horse, or someone else’s horse, to react, to throw its head up, and maybe toss its rider into the dirt.
The first time, it could have been misinterpreted, but when Tyson’s horse half-reared, pushing the rest of the riders back in a bunch, Marston knew he’d not been mistaken.
“Stop,” said Marston, the second time he saw it happen, when Duane decided that Tyson was his next victim.
When they didn’t stop, he walked up to Duane’s horse, a stocky gelding named Banner, and took hold of the reins, right beneath Banner’s bit.
“Stop means stop,” he said sternly. “You want to crack each other’s skulls open? That’s fine with me. But if I see you do that again to a horse, you will dismount and not be allowed to participate.”
“So?” asked Duane with a sneer, yanking on his reins. Marston had a tight hold, so this only affected him, and not Banner’s poor mouth. “So what?”
“So what?” asked Marston quite quietly. “I’ll tell you so what. All your friends will be having fun without you. You’ll be put back to work with a black mark on your record. Three strikes and you’re out.”
“Out of lessons?” asked Tyson, sounding a little worried.
“Out of the program,” said Marston. “I won’t abide cruelty to these animals, and I’ll drop you off at the nearest bus station myself if I see it happen again, and to hell with letting you have two more strikes.”
“Gabe won’t let you do that,” said Duane, though he didn’t sound as certain and had stopped tugging on Banner’s reins. “Or Royce, either.”
“They’ll both thank me for it,” said Marston. Tilting his head to one side, he asked, “So, what’s it going to be?”
He could tell that for Duane to back down in front of his peers was a struggle. He also had a sense that everyone wanted simply to get back to the lesson, back to having fun with a little goofing off thrown in.
And then there was Kell, at the back of the bunch, his hands sensibly still on his horse’s reins, watching the situation play out, his eyes wide. Looking ready to jump out of the way if things turned to violence.
Only they wouldn’t, because Marston wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on his watch.
“Duane, don’t be a dick,” said one of the ex-cons. Marston thought it was Gordy, though he couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t matter anyway, because Duane dropped his chin and loosened his hold on Banner’s reins.
“Shall we get back to the lesson?” asked Marston, only letting go of Banner’s reins when Duane nodded with two hard jerks of his head.
The lesson continued, though somewhat subdued and, when the lesson was over, there was hardly any chatter as they unsaddled and groomed their respective mounts. Kell was situated at the end of the row and when Marston came by to check on him, Kell’s wide-eyed glance at him seemed to say,Wow, that could have gone fucking sideways so fast—
Yeah, it could have, but Marston had typically been good with his fists in the few brawls he’d been in, and he wasn’t about to let any man be cruel to an animal.Anyman.
“All right, there, Kell?” he asked, giving in to the impulse to lay his hand on Kell’s thin shoulder and give it a slow pat. “You did good, keeping a cool head.”
