Page 1 of Cowboy Dreams

Chapter One

Joe

Therewassomeonenewsitting at the bar, his back to me. Here, in the only gay-friendly place within a hundred miles of Dover’s Ridge, that sure made me perk up and take notice. Nice broad shoulders, trim waist, moderate-length hair a dark color in the low lights, styled city-fancy.

I strode over and slid onto the stool next to him, opening my mouth for some kind of smooth hello, but then he turned and looked at me. Eyes pale, pale blue like glacier ice stared at me from a face that coulda been carved by one of those Greek sculptors. Not too young, neither. Maybe my age, but all polished and perfect. And what came out from my lips was a stutter and “H-hey, come here often?”

If I was prone to blush, I probably would’ve at that bit of stupidity, but my skin’s weather-tanned and it don’t show much color. So I kept my chin up and eyes steady.

The stranger looked me up and down, from the dust on my beat-up Wrangler boots to the blond hair I guessed was squashed from being under my hat on the drive over. It occurred to me that I could’ve cleaned up a bit, maybe, beyond just a shower after work. But we mostly knew each other in this bar, and no fancy shirt or boot polish would make me anything but Joe McNeil—ordinary cowhand and none too fussy who he gets on his knees for, week to week.

The man’s gaze returned to my eyes and he said, “I assume you don’t,” in a cut-glass accent to go with the hundred-dollar hairdo.

“Don’t what?”

“Come here often.”

“This here’s my regular,” I said, a bit stung.

“And yet you can’t manage a better pick-up line than that trite, dusty antique?” One perfectly-shaped eyebrow climbed high.

I was about to snap something back and go try my luck elsewhere when I caught a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

Ooh, game on.I reached out and plucked the hem of his sweater with my fingers. The silky wool hugged his shoulders and caught on my calluses, no doubt Pierre Cardin or Armani or something, but I said, “It was probably this cardigan.”

“Thiswhat?”

“Like my gramps used to wear.” I patted the knit back into place against a sharp-boned hip. “Made me think you wouldn’t recognize a pick-up line if it didn’t come from the nineteenth century.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and I saw a tiny smile tug one corner of his pretty mouth upward. “Interesting.” He cocked his head and bit his full lower lip, and I saw one of his eyeteeth was crooked—a tiny flaw in that perfect face. “My stay in this wilderness may not be as barren as I expected.”

Then, just when I’d got hopeful for getting his dick in my mouth, he shot the last of his drink in one gulp, pushed a pile of change across the bar, and strode out into the night. I blinked after him, wondering if he meant me to follow. Wondering if I would, because yeah, I’m mostly a bottom and I don’t mind following orders, but I kinda like the guy to look a little bit interested first.

But a powerful, deep engine roared to life in the parking lot, then pulled away and off down the road. Troy, sitting by the window, said, “Nice ride. Gotta be a ’67 Mustang.”

Clearly, whatever I thought I’d heard, Mr. Rich City wasn’t waiting around for me. I settled back on my stool like I didn’t care, but I did ask Max behind the bar, “You know that guy?”

“Nope. Never seen him.”

“He give a name?”

Max shook his head. “Paid cash. Three shots of my best Scotch—”

“—which ain’t all that good,” we said together.

Max chuckled. “He didn’t seem to care. Drank ’em down, didn’t look at nobody till you tried a line on him.” He scooped the money off the bar, glanced at the bills and coins, and dropped them in his pocket. “Good tipper, though.”

That was something. Lots of rich guys treated tipping like a cheat they resent paying. Like the folks working for eight bucks an hour were stiffing them for wanting a couple bucks more, even though they could afford it, easy. So a guy who was generous with his tips got one checkmark on the plus side of his ledger from me.

Owning a classic ’Stang? I wasn’t sure if that was ten plus, or ten minus for not offering me a ride. Or for having that much money when I was trying to decide if these boots could be resoled one more time, or if I’d have to bite the bullet and buy new.

Either way, I figured he was just passing through. I’d never see him again. Although he’d said, “My stay in this wilderness…”

I sat at the bar a mite longer and a couple of regulars raised a glass my way, but somehow, the array of familiar bodies had lost their appeal for the night. I got back into my truck around eleven. The engine started with a throaty roar too, but only ’cause the muffler was full of holes and held on with baling wire. The half-hour drive back to the ranch felt longer than usual, and emptier. Which made no damned sense at all.

I admit, I swung by Max’s Place a few more times than usual in the next week. Three times, to be honest, because normally, if I’m there at all, it’s just Saturdays. But Tuesday and Thursday and then Friday, it happened to be on my way home. (A lie. I lived in the bunkhouse where I worked, so “on my way home” was a short walk across the barnyard. But whatever.)

I drank three rum-and-cokes I didn’t really want, listened to way too much Tim McGraw, turned down a handful of guys, and came home empty-handed. Or empty-mouthed.

---