If this was a porno, he’d invite me back into that bed. I wouldn’t say no this time. Sadly, real life didn’t include hot queer cowboys. Other than Joe, who’d sent me on my way.
“Do you have plans when you get to the coast?” Seth asked.
“Not really. Sleep in the truck. I wouldn’t freeze my ass off there. Try to find work.” With an impulse to shock him, I said, “On my knees, if necessary.” An instant later, I regretted it because who wants to hire a cowboy interested in sex work?
He just nodded kind of slow. “Face like yours, they’d pay. Crappy work, though, and dangerous.”
I shivered, although his casual reply made me wonder things I shouldn’t. I said, “Probably not more dangerous than ranching.”
I expected a bored nod. We all knew those numbers. Instead, Seth went pale and turned away, staring down the aisle at the stalls, his hands curled into fists. “No. Maybe not.”
What was that?I couldn’t help wondering why he looked shaken, but it wasn’t my place to ask. I said, “I should’ve taken a friend up on a possible lead to work in Denver, but I needed to get out of the state.”
“Colorado? Why? I thought it was a nice place.”
“Yeah, but my dad’s a sheriff’s deputy there, and law enforcement all cover for each other. If he wanted me back, odds are he’d have me.”
“Ah.” Maybe Seth could tell I didn’t want to talk about Dad, because he said, “I could give you gas to get you to San Francisco.”
“I hate handouts.” For years, Dad told me it was up to me to earn every bite of food on my plate, every new item of clothing, be obedient, do my chores. The only times he praised me were when I did extra work for a neighbor and brought home a little cash and gave it to him. He used to say it showed he raised me right.
He’d refused to let me live in the bunkhouse last summer, even though I’d graduated, and Mr. Ford wouldn’t go against Dad while I was still seventeen. Dad didn’t want me out of his control, I guess. I’d run at last, but I had a hard time shaking off his words.
“Maybe you could work here a day or two,” Seth suggested. “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. The boss is flying out for a week to visit his grandkids, and a couple of the hands headed out yesterday to San Francisco to see their family. It’ll be just me, Colby and Davis for the long weekend. We can manage, but an extra hand wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
“Thanksgiving.” I’d almost forgotten, even though some years my birthday came right on the holiday. “Yeah, I can do that, absolutely. Whatever you need.” My hands shook, and I tucked them against the concrete under my thighs to hide the trembling.
“I’ll clear it with the boss in the morning.” Seth reached down to me. “Come on. You can sleep on my couch for the rest of the night.”
“I’m fine—”
“Until Bingo rolls over and crushes you. I don’t want to come across that first thing in the morning…” He’d started out joking, but he sobered at the end, his eyes bleak. “Come on.”
I should’ve said no but I couldn’t turn down a warm place to sleep. His firm grip on my fingers as I grabbed his hand let him haul me up with ease. Seth wasn’t that much bigger than me, maybe five-ten, but he clearly had some muscles under that gray parka. Baggy sweatpants hid his thighs and ass, but two days ago, his jeans had shown off a medium build without a lot of fat on him. A man built for work.
Thinking about his body was a bad, bad idea. I let go of Seth’s hand as soon as I was on my feet. “If you’re sure.”
“Come on.” He bent, retrieved the flashlight he’d dropped and flipped his fur-trimmed hood up. “You have gloves?”
“In my pockets.”
“Wear them.” Seth pulled on his own and opened the door.
“Yessir.” I tugged my beanie lower and stuffed my hands in my leather gloves. This was his show.
“Make sure the door’s latched good and follow me.” He set out, following a set of tracks in the snow.
I walked behind him, placing my feet where he’d put his. The old Christmas song came into my head.In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted.Seth wasn’t King Wenceslas, wasn’t my master, or my anything, but something inside me settled, following him.
A bright moon hung overhead, faintly haloed in the still, cold air. Snow wasn’t my friend right now, but the blanket of white sure looked pretty. Seth’s path led to one in a row of dark, silent cabins.
“Not the bunkhouse?” I murmured, the hush of the snowy world softening my tones.
“Nope.” Seth pulled open the door and waved me inside. “There is a bunkhouse,” he went on once he’d shut the door, blocking out the chill. He flicked on a light. “That’s where the seasonal hands stay, but when Kendrick— Mr. Bowen— took up dude ranching, he had them build cabins for the longterm folks like me, alongside the guest housing. He said having our own places and some privacy would be a perk for his cowhands, reduce turnover. He wasn’t wrong.”
“Have you been here long?” I pried off my snowy boots, stepping on the heels even though it left one sock wet, and set them in the tray by the door. The cabin’s main room wasn’t overheated, but it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the barn.
“Thirteen years and change.” Seth set his snow boots next to my Durangos. The tray held two pairs of cowboy boots, worn and dressy, steel-toe work boots, sneakers, and mahogany polished lace-ups. A man with a whole life lived here. Unlike me.
